Through the Rift
by SillyGoy
Summary: A gaggle of players from Red Orchestra and War Thunder find themselves influencing the world of the Strike Witches. How will the Neuroi deal with their respawns, lead indicators, power-ups and insanity?
1. Essen

**Real Life  
September 15, 2013**

I come home from work with a dull, persistent headache, probably due to stress. The doorknob rattles slightly in my firm grip as I enter my apartment, which reflects the qualities of its resident rather well: dilapidated, disorganized, plain; somewhat unkept.

Currently, I think only of removing this damned pain in my skull but medicine does not come to my mind, for some reason. Instead, I turn towards fun, and I set my eyes to the farthest corner in the room, and behold my computer, not noticing the littered, fallen books on the floor and the broken glass from last night which I didn't even bother to clean up.

My dusty flatscreen monitor, whose maximum resolution is a sufficient 1366 x 768 pixels, smiles at me with the dull glow of reflected light from its screen.

"I will play video games till I sleep," I decide, my mouth moving on its own, but I do not stop it, since I have no good reason to. "And I will own many an unfortunate scrub."

I nod to myself, satisfied and eager to take my set quest, and then I begin my short journey that spans but a few meters, a few seconds.

Taking my shoes off and removing my socks before the bed, I roll over it to get to my computer, the softness of the mattress urging me to rest, but I defeat it with a single, inhuman effort to prop myself up on the side, stand up, and sit on my computer chair.

My butt plants itself firmly upon the wood, and my finger depresses the button on the box that activates my most favorite electronic gadget. I hear my machine whirr into mechanical life in the deafening silence of my room, and the soft light of the Windows 7 welcome screen illuminates and colors my spectacled face in the room, dimly lit only by shadowed light through thick curtains. After a few short moments as my dual-core processor, well, processes, the welcome screen disappears to give way to my desktop.

My wallpaper is the beautiful, blond-haired Arturia Pendragon, resplendent in her somewhat impractical plate armor, holding up her sword, Caliburn, close to her face as she stares defiantly and courageously at an off-frame foe. Behind her is a field of swords, axes, halberds and other weapons that are seemingly discarded.

The context of the digital image I do not know, but what I do know, is that it's a very, very good piece of art, and so I made it my wallpaper months ago.

To the left is a neat column of icons, all leading to folders: "Computer", "Recycle Bin", "Programs", "Library", "Music".

Various programs load themselves at start-up: Skype, µTorrent, Avast!, Steam.

Ah, yes, Steam: my gateway to explosive fun. A small black box communicates to me, "Connecting Steam account 'lieutenantn00bie'...", before disappearing just shortly after, the cruelty of its short life and death having no impact on me as the Steam Store says hello.

I am afraid that I don't want to buy anything, I say to it mentally, before clicking on the letters that spell out "LIBRARY". I am greeted with a screen composed of a compact list of games I can play to the left, and a section with various information all about the selected game, that covers up everything else. I put my mouse cursor upon the list and roll the mousewheel down. I read the many names before me, and stop at times to consider whether I should play this game or not.

The cursor hovers above Crusader Kings II, a game where you can rape your daughter, assassinate your wife, force your nephew to marry his sister, lead thirty thousand men across a hostile desert in a crusade in the name of God, and various other shenanigans, from one thousand to fourteen hundred AD. I've had metric tonnes of fun with it, changing and violating history. In one playthrough, I formed Spain and made England a part of my kingdom.

Now, shall I play it?

No, I decide, for it's too complex, and it will do little to relieve me of this headache; in fact, it will merely exacerbate it as I plan out the future of myself, my holdings, my children and my relatives.

Alright, if not Crusader Kings II, then what about...

... Dwarf Fortress?

Haha, no, that's even worse than Crusader Kings! The depth and complexity of this free game such that it is, in my unlearned opinion, surpassed only by one other game in the world: an obscure 4X game set in space called Aurora, and if I play either of them, my head would explode in its current state. Looks like I'll tend to my Fortress, filthy rich with the output of its mermaid slaughterhouses and forced breeding pens, another day.

Games, games, what other games?

Musumakeup?

I may be stressed, but I'm not in the mood to wank. Sorry, Natane, I'll play with you another day.

Or later, if I'm feeling like it. And I probably will.

Do I still have tissues? I look towards my left and I am greeted by a box full of it. That's good.

Anyway,

I scroll down, finding every title to be either headache-worsening or boring. Mount and Blade? Nah. Rome II: Total War? Nah. Kerbal Space Program?

Hmm... yes...

... or how about no?

My pirated copy of Mirror's Edge, added as a non-steam game and not-so-cleverly renamed to "Warhammer 40,000: Chaos Gate"? Haha, no.

...

War Thunder?

It is, in its current state, a game where you pilot and fight in various aircraft put into service from the Interwar Period to the early Cold War. Later on, the Army and Navy modes will be unlocked, and players will be able to hop into other machines of war. So far, in my experience of it, the game is fun, and though some flight models are wrong and the damage model is questionable during some moments, it is fairly balanced. Still, the matchmaker will at times, and inevitably, put you into a curb-stomp battle. During those times, hope that you are in the seal-clubbing team, and not the other one.

The game has three gamemodes: Arcade Mode, Historical Battles, and Full Real Battles.

In the first, flight models are extremely simplified: your plane will operate wonderfully and will not suffer any damage no matter how many abusive twists, turns or dives you make.

In the second, flight models representing player aircraft are made to be as realistic as possible and the player cannot respawn. Most aircraft are forced to take-off at first, instead of spawning in the air and charging into battle immediately.

In the third, it is the same as the Historical Battles mode, except that the controls are set to emulate a plane's control stick, foregoing the wonderful mouse-aim that draws this combat flight simulator to a very wide audience, and your view is restricted to first-person, to the pilot in the cockpit.

The only people who play FRB are masochists or people who have joysticks. It is an absolute pain in the ass to fly FRB with a mouse, since you simply can't point the crosshair in a direction and your plane will perform the optimum maneuver to follow it.

It is extremely satisfying to get a kill in War Thunder, and even more so if it's a clean pilot kill. It's hard not to grin when you set some poor sod's engine on fire, and hard not to laugh as he rages at you over the chat.

Hmm...

I've decided - I'm going to play War Thunder. Arcade mode is fun and even more extreme than Call of Duty at times; one Michael Bay moment was when I did an angelic loop around a falling, dying bomber thirty meters off the ground while the twenty-millimeter tracer shells of the three Beaufighters chasing me streak past my Ishak. Too bad I can't view the replay anymore due to version mismatch, but oh well.

I double-click at the title, and a little spinning disk of crystal appears beside my mouse cursor before the launcher for the game starts up. I am greeted with links to recent news about the game to the left, settings I can fiddle with at the top, the download and installation progress bar and the "PLAY" button at the bottom, upon a background depicting two jets, one Soviet, the other, American, in an intense dogfight.

I tap the play button, which depresses in response, before the launcher disappears and the screen turns to back as starts up.

The loading screen, which is three small bars towards the bottom of the screen with the word "Loading..." on the very center, appears only for a brief moment before the log-in page presents itself to me. Both screens have the same background: a Soviet Pe-3, a powerful twin-engine aircraft, flying close to the ground and through the smoky explosion of its bomb blast.

Orchestral music, most pleasing to the ears, begins to play. The soundtrack of the game is composed by Jeremy Soule, a veteran of composing World War II-themed music. The song that's playing now is called "Wings of Prey", I believe.

The log-in page is a thick column at the screen's left side. Its head is the War Thunder logo, which is very much well-designed in my opinion, and its foot is the developer, Gaijin Entertainment's logo. In the middle are what you'd expect in a log-in page: text boxes for my e-mail and password, check boxes for whether I want to save my log-in input or just log-in automatically, links that lead to the War Thunder website for registration or password recovery, and a very big bar with "OK" at the very left.

I begin to type.

_E-mail: marsmagosmechanicus_

_Password: ul7nz2j5_

Great.

I hover my mouse cursor above the okay button, and depress it with a mouse click.

The triumphant Pe-3 fades away and its 2D form is replaced by a fully-rendered, 3D airfield where upon various, battle-ready aircraft rest, though they are darkened and blurred by an obscuring, slightly transpartent window that floats over them with the words "Connecting to server..." above a small, spinning white wheel, which is above an opaque button that reads "Cancel".

Shortly enough, the window disappears and the airfield is naked before me.

At the top of the screen are various functions. There are two menus which drop down upon mouse hover to let you access custom game modes, singleplayer missions, squadrons you can join, an encyclopedia which I never really use, game replays, game options and preferences, and much more.

To the right of those menus are three small buttons: a person with another one behind them, a speech bubble, and a golden letter envelope.

The first one lets me access my friends list in this game; the second one lets me access the chatrooms I was in before I left the game the previous session; the last one allows me to access a record of what I've done and accomplished for the past few games.

To the right of those little buttons is the War Thunder logo, and to the right of that is a brief profile of myself: Magos, level 14.

To the right of that still, are the counters for my silver lions and golden eagles. I earn silver lions by playing the game; golden eagles must be bought with real money.

The collapsible bars and buttons towards the bottom of the screen allow me to choose which nationality to play as and which aircraft to modify or fly for HB and FRB. Since my last sortie was with my Bf 109 E-3, a German plane, the game has automatically selected Germany upon start-up, and so the camera pans around my Dornier 217 J-1, so resplendent in the game's gorgeous graphics, as it is the leftmost plane in the group of which I can select, and apparently the game selects things from left to right.

I take a moment to appreciate the beauty of reflected virtual light making the cockpit of the twin-engined heavy fighter shine.

...

Ah, I almost forgot.

I take my eyes off of the screen and look up and towards my right, at the top of the CPU box sitting beside my monitor on this here old, wooden computer desk.

There it is, so rude in that it stays there, perfectly still in its boxy form, careless of me and everything else in the world.

The Oculus Rift.

Through Reddit, I had heard of the Oculus Rift project and immediately pledged a rather large sum of money at its Kickstarter page since I, bored with the monotony of life and lacking the patience or will to get a meaningful hobby, was unsurprisingly amazed and excited over it. How could I not be? It's virtual reality! With such technology, a person can go to worlds completely different from our own and experience things most people will never.

My rather large pledge has earned me a dev-kit version of the Rift, with its resolution at twelve-eighty by eight hundred pixels instead of the nineteen-twenty by ten-eighty pixels of the still far-off consumer version.

Yes, I forgot about it because of this head pain, which is now being dissolved by the giddiness I am feeling at trying it out, right now, for the first time, in such an immersive game like War Thunder.

I stand up for a little bit, peeking over the back of my CPU box, tired knees protesting, to see if the Rift is connected. Why, it is! And I remember ticking the check-box in the launcher for Oculus Rift support last night when I got the package, before going to bed! It's set; everything is set!

With a dumb but happy smile on my face, I select the German Bf 109 E-3 fighter plane with a little mouse click, right click upon its icon, and select "Test Flight" in the selection box that pops up, the new, happy tune the game is playing at the moment fitting my mood. A window upon which I can select the difficulty level - Arcade, Historical Battles or Full Real Battles - and the conditions of my aircraft presents itself before me.

I begin clicking.

And then it says:

_Difficulty: Historical Battles_

_Fuel and Ammo: Unlimited_

_Secondary Weapons: Without Load_

_Shell Rack: 7.92mm ammunition belt with tracers_

_Shell Rack #2: 20mm ammunition belt for air targets_

_Camouflage: Battle of Britain camouflage_

_Guns targeting distance (m): 300_

_Vertical targeting: No_

_Bomb activation time (sec): 0_

_Rocket activation distance (m): Impact_

_Fuel amount: 30m_

_Modification of aircraft: Current_

Satisfied, I then click the "OK" button on the lower right.

The current screen fades to be replaced by a mission briefing screen, with blue marks representing allied units, a lone red mark representing that one lonesome truck you get to kill during test flights, a blue strip representing the runway of an allied airfield, and the topography of the map upon, well, a map. My mission objectives, of which I have none since this is a test flight, both primary and secondary are supposed to be listed on the right. The bar at the bottom of the screen with the word "Loading" is accompanied by a meaningful spinning white disk, and the game plays steadily rising music.

Steadily rising music, which is abruptly cut off as my screen is split in half, both pieces a view of my plane's cockpit nearly identical to the other.

"Oh my God," I gasp out involuntarily. With hands shaking from excitement, I take off my glasses and place them on the desk, put on my headphones, grab the rift, put the strap over my head, and close my eyes as I place it over them, the soft foam being squished in between the plastic of the device and the flesh of my skull. I lift up my eyelids as I further adjust the Rift, and holy shit -

I look down and I see my chest, which is no longer clad in a plain blue shirt but a flight vest. My right hand, so comfy-looking in its glove has its grip on the control stick.

I look to my right, see not my curtained windows, but my plane's wing and the treeline beyond it through real, scratched glass. I see the _individual_ blades of grass in a field full of them, and I can make out the individual leaves of the trees some distance away. The sun, so high above in noon, smiles upon them, and my brain is tricked that, when I attempt to look at the sun, I _feel warmed by it_.

I notice the metal frame of my canopy and inspect it. I see a small scratch, and some discoloration on the surface; I notice the thinning paint on the edges.

My God.

My jaw, in real life, drops.

The graphics are such that I am completely immersed in the game and I haven't done anything yet.

The game looks amazing with the Rift; no way in hell did this game look as good on the screen as it is right now. Everything looks _real_, every object looking authentic and organic in my eyes. Does the device have some sort of graphics card of its own? This is amazing!

Giggling like a lovestruck schoolgirl unable to contain her emotions, I look above me and regard the feathery tuffs of white that are high-altitude clouds through the glass of my canopy. The detail in them is amazing, even in the way they move, ever so slowly, ushered by the wind.

I turn my head to the left, and see stacks of barrels of oil under the shade of healthy, thick-trunked trees. Beyond them, I see a hangar whose doors are opened, and, within, I can see men, _individual men_, walking, working, just doing their thing, and in such fluid animation, too! Haha, oh wow! There is no wall or TV there, but a portion of the world!

I notice the shadow that my left wing casts upon the ground, and I say a stupid, loud "Wow" in amazement.

Gorgeous, absolutely gorgeous!

It's like it's real or something; I cannot explain it, not with my limited vocabulary, but it's just amazing when you see a ladybug on a blade of grass, being enveloped in shadow as it walks into it, its legs visibly working, step by little step.

I am prepared to throw more money at Sergey Orlovskiy.

I then notice my HUD, which follows my head but not my eyes, hovering before every other object that I see. I flick my eyes towards the top-left corner of my vision and see the THR which reads as a red BRK, since my aircraft is resting at the ground. I see my SPD which reads at an unchanging 0km/h. My ALT is at 62m above sea level, and my FUEL reads at a steady 20:41 - twenty minutes, forty-one seconds. The word "INSTRUCTOR" is greyed out below it.

I flick my eyes towards the top-right corner of my screen and I am greeted with the radar. The lone truck I get to get has its little blip flash red, while my allies' blips are at a steady, blue color.

I turn my head to look behind me. I see shadowed metal, but no headrest. Oh well, that only adds to the immersion since the back of my chair only reaches up to my armpits. I see a hint of my rudder, and the metal stick with the wire that connects to it for some reason I don't know, because I am not very well learned in any subject of aircraft, World War II or any other time period. I see the green grass - individual blades, again - and a group of tents beyond. I see men once more, moving, talking.

Have I ever told you how amazing this is?

I am _inside_ War Thunder.

I turn my head around and look at my instruments. I see the altimeter, the speedometer - those things, I can recognize easily enough, but for all the others, I either forget what they are called, or just don't know them altogether. At my left and right, above my knees, I see two levers that terminate in yellow bulbs, and I have no idea what they do. Above a green-lined panel that measures the temperature of something, I see two lit, green lights, and, above those, two unlit red ones, which indicates that my gear is in the 'down' position.

Oh wow, there's a clock in here too; I hadn't realized!

And below what I can only describe as a tube of toothpaste, is my shadowed, gloved left hand, resting upon the throttle control.

If I push this forwards - no, sorry - hold shift, I'll go whooshing over the runway and get airborne.

At this point, I notice that the plane's engine is purring, and it unnerves me. My heart is racing because it all feels so _real_. The graphics are simply so good, that my brain is tricked that this is real-life, and it's wondering: fight or flight? What I'm about to do is easily the scariest experience of my life, ever.

I hold shift, and watch as my THR goes from BRK to 100% in just a few seconds. My plane's purr becomes a soft growl, and then a furious roar, and as the aircraft begins to catch speed, the Instructor automatically sets the flaps to the take-off position, but I raise them back, blending them back into the wing, with a little press of the F key.

My speed goes from 0, to 10, to 30, to 80 kilometers per hour in just a short moment. My eyes dilate as fear kicks in and I mumble "Oh shit, oh shit" as the naked, brown earth of the runway before me becomes blurred because of just how fast I'm going. I look towards my left and a tower whose purpose is unknown to me rushes past my speeding plane. A person inside of the wooden structure salutes me, and all I can say is a dumbfounded "Holy shit", as I hit 160 kilometers per hour and gently pull on the mouse to level the plane with the ground to prevent it from taking off, since it's a habit of mine to take off only when I reach 250 kilometers per hour.

My brain screams at me to stop, and I almost do, but I talk it down, saying that what we're experiencing together isn't real.

170, 190, 210, 230 kilometers per hour, how many meters of runway torn through, I don't know. Jesus Christ, I'm going so fast! I've never been so fast, so... sonic before! Well, I have traveled by airline quite a few times but it's nothing like this! Now, I know the machine isn't real, and nothing's actually vibrating, but the roar of the engine and being shook about in this rattling cockpit - wow! Wow!

Jesus Christ, if I don't pull up now, I'll clip a tree on a treeline just ahead, at the end of the runway!

_Jesus Christ!_ 260 kilometers per hour! I push the mouse gentle forwards and...

... well, _damn_! The shaking's stopped and I am aloft, in the air, soaring in this magnificent war machine! And, as if on cue, the game decides to play a upbeat battle song - my grin stretches so far that it actually hurts my mouth. My _God_. I'm flying!

I'm flying!

I'm really, really flying!

I level the plane so that I stop gaining altitude, and, at 280km/h, 110m above sea level, I am elated, joyous, happy, but also frightened, scared, and high on adrenaline. The trees and the ground rush below me, and I swear on my mother that I see some sort of small, furred animal down there; once again, I am awestruck by the detail on the smallest things, from the little ladybug on the grass to the thinning paint on my canopy's frame.

I loose all dignity for a moment, and let loose a very loud **"WOOOO!" **while simultaneously rolling my aircraft clockwise, making me slightly nauseous. Since this war machine isn't made to fly inverted, the nose dips towards the ground halfway through my roll and when I finish it, I am just a few meters off of the ground, and I try my damned hardest to just pull up and towards the right to escape from the fucking tree that's rushing towards me like a goddamn missile on steroids!

But the plane is too busy recovering from the stupid maneuver I just put it through.

My life flashes before my eyes.

My mother, my mother,

My childhood,

My,

Too late.

...

The entire world is engulfed in the roaring sound of destruction as my right wing is struck by the tree and is ripped apart in a flash; my plane's propeller is torn apart and its belly is utterly mangled as they both hit the ground, hard, just a split-second later. My velocity still in excess of over 150 kilometers per hour, and my plane gouging dirt and mud out of the photorealistic terrain, something terrible - I don't know what - happens in my still-running, painfully gurgling engine and it explodes into flame.

My plane skids sidewards now, visibly slowing down to my now-tearing eyes but even then the awful noise that is my airplane getting torn apart, like the Devil's throaty laugh, persists and stays like that even as parts of my cockpit begin to become damaged. A thick three branch or whatever the hell kind of debris - I am too scared to pay attention and know - strikes my canopy from above and shatters the glass, which pours in, and my eyes follow them down and _Oh My God_ my legs are crushed and are bleeding!

Oh shit! Oh Jesus, oh no!

No, man! No!

I look towards the left of the plane, through the metal frame of the canopy, and I see yet another tree just bumrushing up towards me. My facial expression in real life is that of utter fear, shock and disbelief as, scripted or not, my character raises his hands to shield us from our - no, his death.

A split-second later, I see the rushing bark through his shaking, gloved fingers, and then the camera takes over to pan out in third-person, to save me from witnessing terrifying death in first-person. The view is so far away that I can't see my character clearly, but I see the bumrushing tree being uprooted by the left wing and thrown over,

Before the screen fades to black.

...

Taking off the Rift with slow, shaking hands, I set it upon the CPU box as my body is racked from the receding adrenaline rush.

Rivulets of tears stream down my face from my bloodshot eyes, both from the feeling of abject terror, and sadness from the short connection to my pilot. His reaction to his approaching doom brought forth a fleeting feeling of guilt before it quickly faded.

My chest is heaving, my breaths coming short from the experience, and I am sobbing, for I have witnessed and conversed with Death himself.

...

But it wasn't real.

"Wow," I say to myself, head shaking in disbelief with a wide manic grin quickly spreading across my features. "Fucking wow."

I bring my still trembling hands together, and manage to bring about a slow staggered clap.

"That's was really fucking great, Sergey, Gaijin. Fucking wow."

I can say that without a hint of sarcasm, and really have no idea if it's the appropriate time to be praising them for their amazing work, but,

...damn.

That was one of the, no, THE BEST and most terrifying gaming experience I've ever had.

No, no, that's not big enough to express my utter amazement and elation. It was THE BEST and the most terrifying experience of MY LIFE, not just gaming.

"Hot _damn_."

That was crazy on so many fucking levels, man.

Saying that, I close War Thunder, which is now in the main menu and playing a soft, mocking symphony at me, with a quick Alt+F4.

I then click on the Start button on the lower-left corner, and depress the "Shut down" button.

Windows tells me that it's shutting down as I turn off the monitor, stand up, push the chair back in, and retire to the bed.

It's only 6:03 PM.

Jesus Christ.

* * *

**August 07, 1943  
****Essen Army Airfield, Karlsland**

What a disaster.

The entire right wing of the crashed plane is scores of meters away from the main body, its twenty-millimeter cannon lying broken before it. All around, debris from the craft, both big and small, left landing gear wheel and rudder skin, can be seen, and the depressed trail of dirt, broken metal and snapped twigs leads to the pilot's place of death. Army firefighters are present, cooling off the plane, which is mostly intact save for the detached wing, with blasts of water from powerful hoses before the retrieval of the person inside can be commenced. Officers bark out commands as people, both spectators and working men surround the downed aircraft.

"Get him out! C'mon!" yells one soldier to his companion, who is closer to the cockpit. He climbs on top of the fuselage and scurries around, before opening the shattered canopy with the help of the other soldier.

Now that the smoke has died down and the fire extinguished, the charred, mutilated body of the pilot can now be seen: black, burnt flesh, eyes melted off, skin torn off and muscle exposed are just a few of the damages. The soldier on top of the fuselage has the look on his face falling, before acting upon the urge to remove his helmet due to having seen such a terrible sight. "My God," he says to his friend, who isn't looking any better, "He's obviously dead, but god damn..."

More soldiers bunch up around the cockpit and, together, they remove the corpse and lay it on the ground. The spectators further off wince, cringe and grimace, and Captain Minna-Dietlinde Wilcke, Lieutenant Gertrud Barkhorn, Sergeant Erica Hartmann, and Sergeant Hanna-Justina Marseille are no exception.

Gertrud's lower lip quivers, and then her eyes begin to tear up. Minna puts a hand on her shoulder, a sad look on her face as with all the others, to comfort the young lieutenant as she begins to cry, for while she is no stranger to battlefield casualties, never in her life has she witnessed such an utter waste of human life.

...

A few weeks later and the identities of both the pilot and the aircraft still cannot be specified. Papers were sorted, shifted and shared, and yet no squadron or city recognized the dead man, whose name was apparently Magos Mechanicus as his dog-tags, which lacked all other information save for the name of a nonexistent squadron, Kampfgeschwader 508, specified.

As for the plane, the only markings which could have served to identify it were two emblems featuring an edelweiss upon a blue shield, painted across each other just beneath the cockpit, and the words "WE REPLY" in fist-sized letters on the right wing of the craft, painted near where the cockpit would be. Karlslander authorities processed these and yet nothing could be retrieved.

And nothing in the airplane had a serial number or anything else that could be tracked to a specific factory. Nothing.

"Nothing still, huh... I wonder who he was," said the blond-haired Erica as she lay on her bed in contemplation, pantsless as usual, with Gertrud there on the side just having relayed the news to the girl of nothing being found about the dead pilot. "It bugs me, because that guy might've had a family and they're gonna be wondering where he'd gone to."

Gertrud herself lay on the bed next to Erica's, her mood that of solemness. "Well, we have no leads, nothing," she says, "Other than his dog-tags, and yet those are still confusing. Kampfgeschwader 508? That's definitely a Witches' squadron, yet it doesn't exist."

"Mmm," came the reply in agreement.

...

Silence.

The crickets outside of the barracks incessantly chirp, yet the two girls, and pretty much everyone else in the world, have gotten so used to them that they both dismiss the awful sound as background noise and don't notice it. The moon, high above in the sky, is a glowing crescent in the dark blue night. If one is standing where the two girls are right now, they can see the lights of several buildings next to this one go off one by one, through the window, as people decide it's time to go to bed.

Erica then speaks up again, livening up the mood with a smile and a lighthearted suggestion: "Say, what if he's some sort of weird time traveler from another dimension where nothing makes sense?"

Barkhorn considers this for a moment, her eyes locking with Erica's, before replying morosely, "I wish it were so easy to dismiss it like that, then we wouldn't have to be burdened with his death's weight on our conscious."

Erica frowns at the reminder that war is indeed hell, before realizing that she is sleepy, and uses it as an excuse to escape from what she deems is tiring, emotional BS. "Well, it's not healthy to be thinking about it very often, so let's just melt it all away in a good night's sleep. Goodnight~!", she says, before rolling over and burying her face into her pillow in an inverted spread eagle.

Gertrud Barkhorn just sighed, before pulling the blankets over her, and closing her eyes, trying to rid of all this deep, depressing thought and melt away into the comfort of sleep.

* * *

**Real Life  
September 16, 2013**

I want to try that again!


	2. 1v1 Me

**Mont Saint-Michel, Strait of Dover**  
**February 25, 1944**

It's been quite some months since the mysterious Essen Crash, and most of those who were there to see it first-hand have gotten over it as they are assailed by new, Neuroi-related problems, and the 508th Fighter Squadron named "Mighty Witches" has been formed. And as expected, not even a hint of the 508th Kampfgeschwader Squadron can be found in any of the mountain of documents the appropriate people have shuffled through; the identity of the Messerschmitt Bf 109 E-3 pilot still remains unknown; and nary a single part of the plane can be traced back to any specific factory.

The sky above the island fortress that the multinational 501st Joint Fighter Wing proudly call their home base is a clear, healthy blue interspersed with clouds of white ranging from comically fat to pathetically thin, and the sun, jolly and uncaring as ever for the plight of man, smiles upon the panting, pantsless forms of Yoshika Miyafuji and Lynette Bishop as the two girls sprint through the runway whose length and width are such that any conventional aircraft of the era trying to land on it would have a very enjoyable time struggling not to skid off the sides or slam into the hangar that is its terminus. Behind the brunette and the blonde is a woman of long, black hair neatly tied into a ponytail who sports a white eyepatch and a Fuso navy officer's uniform.

Well, half of it at least. Like Lynne and Yoshika, she is bereft of trousers.

Her name is Mio Sakamoto, Captain of the Fuso Imperial Navy, and she is the girls' instructor for this training session. With a strong, lecturing voice fit for a samurai, she yells out to them, "Faster! Faster!"

And though they try their hardest, they gain only the littlest speed. They had been running for quite some time, and though the runway is constructed with witches in mind, it is still many dozens of meters long.

"What do you see in front of you?!", Mio then asks, the 'blade' of a traditional Japanese bokken resting on her shoulder.

"The sea!" came the immediate, alert reply of the little Fuso witch under her care.

"What lies beyond the sea?!"

Now, this time, it is Lynne that answers. With her eyes closed as she runs, she looks like she's going to faint! "Europe!", is her reply.

And indeed, she is correct: beyond the runway is the waters of a little arm of the Atlantic Ocean: the Strait of Dover. Beyond that still, is Gallia, a powerful state that is one of the more prominent ones in the continent of Europe, a gargantuan mass of land, water and cities, that has been burdened heavily by the brunt of the wrath of the Neuroi, and currently the most vital theatre of war in the fight for human civilization.

The Neuroi came from nowhere during the later months of 1939. With flowing, black, regenerative crystalline skin, their war machines regenerate and fill in even the most grievous of wounds our guns can deliver unto them, and their still poorly understood laser beams - or whatever they are - can cut through the thickest and most sophisticated of our armor plates. Our conventional units, with enough effort, can hold their ground on land and even push them back, but, at times, gigantic, flying Neuroi war machines, whose great mass and bulk are such that it is simply impossible for conventional means to bring them aloft, appear, and pack such gargantuan amounts of firepower that it takes a full squadron of humanity's elite, the Witches, to take them down.

And to destroy any Neuroi, one must destroy the crimson, glowing crystal cores lurking within the ungodly hulls of the things. Killing them would be easy if it weren't for their all-destroying laser beams and regenerative powers; they are actually quite fragile and vulnerable, even to small-arms fire. One night-fighting Messerschmitt Bf 110 F-4 pilot even has thirty-eight confirmed kills to his name, but it is truly the Witches, being the most elite, who've racked up the most victories with Gertrud Barkhorn at #1 with over 260 kills as of February 1944.

And do I know any of this? Most definitely, yes. I've watched the anime, both seasons, and read a bit on some of the manga, and found it to be very entertaining. Although fanservice, unwanted or not, is everywhere, and the story seems to be all about girls groping other girls, but you get used to it shortly, and immediately bask in the warmth of the sweet camaraderie of the 501st. The show has lots of lighthearted fun that can lift you up from even the sourest of moods but its adult themes make it a definite no-no for children.

"And what is the situation in Europe?!" Mio asks.

"It's being occupied by the Neuroi!" Lynne replies through panting breaths.

"That's right! You must regain that territory! And to do that, you need training, training, and more training!" Mio makes a very quick pause to restrengthen her voice before continuing. "Run! What you need before magical power is physical strength!"

"Yes, ma'am!", both girls respond in chorus.

A few short moments later and the two rookies finally reach the end of the long runway, stopping to put their hands on their tired knees and beg the Earth's atmosphere for oxygen. However, they are quickly interrupted by their instructor, who informs them, as loudly as ever and in an appropriate drill-sergeant tone voice, that they are going to run the last ten rounds.

A "Yes, ma'am!" identical to the last one is the reply of the two girls to that. Their determination is admirable. Their legs blur into the motion of running as they begin to sprint back to where they started from, while the sun, uncaring for their plight, smiles at them and everything else on the daylight-side of the world.

The tired, fifteen-year-old girl from Fuso that is Yoshika Miyafuji looks at her fellow trainee to check how she's doing - and indeed, she isn't doing much better than she is; they are both tired from Mio's training gauntlet. However, that train of thought is halted as Yoshika notices Lynne's Brobdingnagian physical assets. She lets out a sound of disbelief as a blush paints her cheeks red and her jaw drops in unhidden amazement.

"Miyafuji! Eyes forward!", Mio admonishes, and little Yoshika is quick to obey.

"Y-yes, ma'am!"

**~O~  
Real Life**

It is the sixteenth of September, in the year of our Lord twenty-thirteen, and I, just having come home from work again with another headache, perform a crude double-kick to get my shoes off of my feet right after I close the door to my apartment. I throw the wrapper of the burger I've just finished devouring just a few seconds ago in a conveniently nearby garbage bin, before looking left, and setting my gaze upon the Oculus Rift, which rests atop my CPU case, with the intent to use it.

The last time I went for a virtual-reality spin with it, I crashed my undeniably very expensive plane in War Thunder as I took it out for a test flight. Well, expensive in real life, definitely, but it costs only a few hundred or a thousand silver lions to repair it completely in the game, even if it was obliterated into a million little pieces in the blast of a Tallboy bomb - when Gaijin decides to put the weapon in the game - and I earn upwards of ten thousand lions with at least two aerial victories every Historical Battle; and these days, I play only HB.

I take off my socks while standing up, smiling like a crazed rapist at my terrified computer as I think of all the wonders I'd experience. I then unconsciously put my socks in front of my nose to smell them, and, as expected, the odor that greets me is undeniably awful. My face duly contorting in disgust, I throw the garments onto my bed, and walk a few paces to take my rightful place on my throne, my computer chair.

I turn on my computer with a button press, and it beeps alertly in response as the BIOS and other components of which I am not familiar with, do their thing. Various boot-up screens illuminate my bespectacled face with their different colors before the Windows 7 welcome screen makes way for my desktop. The familiar Arturia Pendragon is there, comforting my stressed eyes with her regal yet battle-ready form as she holds up her sword, Caliburn, in a fighting stance. Yet I pay only a small amount of attention to her as Steam automatically connects my account to its busy servers.

The appropriate windows pop-up, and I close the Steam News and replace the view of the Store with that of my Library of games. I scroll down the list of titles and double-click upon "War Thunder". A small, blue crystal disk appears beside my cursor for the briefest of moments before the launcher appears and the two dogfighting jets greet me. The download and installation progress bar at the bottom is empty as the launcher checks for updates, but miraculously becomes filled in completely when it finds none, the "PLAY" button turning from sickly gray to lively red as it becomes clickable.

And damn right, do I click it, and I smash my right index finger right onto onto my _God-damn_ mouse button; I am so pumped up.

And I am pumped up, because I could not distinguish between reality and video game when I put on the Rift last time. War Thunder, during my dangerous joyride, had the detail and realism the environment around me currently has.

The screen fades to a momentary black as the beloved Aces executable starts up, and soon enough, a background I don't see too often greets my eyes: two PBY Catalina bombers, flying boats which are very enjoyable to shoot down in any heavy fighter, flying over an aircraft carrier of the United States Navy. I regard the two big, blue bullet magnets that remind me of so many sweet kills before flicking my eyes to the log-in page as soon as it had loaded.

I clatter on my keyboard as I put in my credentials.

_E-mail: marsmagosmechanicus_

_Password: ul7nz2j5_

Great.

I click on the big, long bar neat the bottom that says "Ok", and a little, transparent window pops up. "Logging in, please wait..." it says, before disappearing, and making way for the airfield and aircraft selection screen that is menu, another window like it promptly appearing, this time telling me that the game is "Connecting to server...", and vanishing just as quickly.

My Dornier, a massive twin-engined heavy fighter armed with four machine guns and four twenty-millimeter cannons to destroy even the most heavily-armored bomber, warmly receives me with a hello in the form of reflected virtual light winking at me from the glass of its cockpit. It, and the airfield around it are pretty, but they are shown only in the game's usual graphics, and not the ultra-realism I saw and experienced with the Rift. I go maneuver my cursor towards the "Game modes" drop-down menu to select a single-mission for me to fiddle in, but a pop-up similar to the previous ones interrupts me and darkens the whole screen, asking me,

_"Continue your game?"_

I raise an eyebrow; this is the first time such a pop-up like this has ever, well, popped up. I wonder if it's referring to my terrifying test flight, but I don't think of it too much, and so, instinctively and curiously, I click the one of the two buttons that says a very simple, very plain "Ok".

The screen fades into a complete black before transitioning into the mission briefing screen I am all too familiar with. The map, I notice, is different in that I don't recognize it. It looks like to be the one for Operation: Hardest Day, but there is a small island there in the Strait of Dover with a blue strip denoting that upon it is an allied airfield. In the landmass of Britain, I can see a great number of blue blips; and over at France, there's nothing. The green aircraft that is my spawn indicator just north-east of the island with the airfield faces toward the south-west.

Towards the bottom right, the spinning wheel indicating that the game is loading disappears, and the word "Loading" has its suffix changed to 'ed', to morph into the word, "Loaded". Another pop-up appears, this time a large, solid window displaying the icons and names of all the battle-ready aircraft I have in my hangar. They are listed in neat rows, one for each country.

The topmost row, whose background is the American flag, showcases my American planes: the P-40E-1 Kittyhawk, the P-39N-0 Aircobra, the A-20G Havoc, the F4U-1a Corsair, and, last and least, the F2A-3 Buffalo.

The second row, whose background is the Nazi German flag with the swastika replaced with a black cross, features my German and Italian planes: the Dornier 217 J-1, the M.C 202 Folgore, the Ju 87D-5 cannon Stuka, the Me 410 A-1 or U-4 bomber-killer, and finally, my favorite, the Messerschmitt Bf 109, the E-3 variant.

The third row, whose background is the flag of the USSR, lists my Russian planes: the famous, and oh so deadly in this game if handled correctly, IL-2 Sturmovik, the Yak 7-B, the LaGG-3-35, the MiG-3-15, and the SB 2M-103U twin-engined bomber.

The fourth row, whose background is, of course, that of Great Britain's flag, has my British planes and they are as follows: the Hawker Hurricane Mark II, the extremely hated Beaufighter Mark VIc, the Spitfire Mark II, the Hurricane Mark I, and, surprise, surprise, another Beaufighter, Mark X.

The final row, whose background is the Imperial Japanese rising sun flag, displays my Japanese aircraft: the nimble Ki-61-la Hien, the Ki-45 Toryu with it's pathetic 50 rounds of ammo, the Ki-43-II Hayabusa made of paper mache, the A6M2-N fighter, and finally, the gargantuan H6K flying boat.

There is a message at the top of the window. "Select your plane", it says. I look at the screen, look at all the aircraft that I own, for about two or three seconds, before immediately double-clicking the Bf 109.

...

For me, there is no other choice. I like it, simply.

The window makes no transition as the shotgun blast of all the airplanes I can fly immediately disappear to make way to list all the different options I can tinker with to configure my flight, nearly identical to the one that appears when you decide to take a plane out to test fly, save for the addition of two rather helpful options, which I immediately click upon.

_Date: February 25, 1944_

_Time: 1730 hours_

Satisfied, I then begin clicking on everything else, flicking my eyes up and to the right just once to check out my in-game wealth: 704704 silver lions and 210 golden eagles. Great.

My preferences are as follows:

_Difficulty Level: Arcade Battles _- since I intend to do utterly stupid and dangerous things, I want a simplified flight model so my plane doesn't try to kiss the ground when I inevitably do a few aileron rolls.

_Fuel and Ammo: Unlimited _- since there is no reason to limit myself since the only foe that will be there is probably some poor patrol boat.

_Secondary Weapons: bomb 250kg _- Why not, eh? Let's see how good I am at dive bombing in first-person mode.

_Shell rack: 7.92mm ammunition belt with tracers_

_Shell rack #2: 20mm ammunition belt for air targets_

_Camouflage: Battle of Britain Camouflage _

_Guns targeting distance (m): 300 _

_Vertical Targeting: No_ - Haven't tried it, haven't tested it, never trying it, mostly because I am not one for trying out new things.

_Bomb activation time (sec): 0_

_Rocket activation distance (m):_ _Impact_

_Fuel amount: 20m_

_Modification of aircraft__: Current_

I review my selections and find myself satisfied. I crack my fingers loudly, before pressing the 'Ok' at the bottom-right of the window. It is then that the solid window makes way for a transparent one, similar to the ones that come up when you're starting the game. The words upon it make me smile:

_"Please put on the Oculus Rift."_

And I do. I take off my glasses and grab the boxy little adventure machine, and pull the strap over my head, before letting the device rest upon my cheeks, cushioned by soft foam. I have my eyes closed as I adjust the device a bit, and then I have them open as I adjust it further. Even through my shaking and bobbing view as I try to get comfortable, I behold the amazing, photorealistic graphics: from the tiny scratches of the instrument panels, to the wear of the metal around the craft, to the harsh glare of the sun and the little ocean waves playing leapfrog over each other far below me. I pause my fiddling with the rift to put on my headphones and deploy its microphone to its ready position.

I finish adjusting the Rift and begin to take in my environment: in front of me are my instrument panels and various aircraft controls - all functioning, needles spinning, working perfectly - and I see that the thing that I can only describe as a tube of toothpaste is still there, towards my left, when I look at that direction. I see the orange, late-afternoon sun, golden and magnificent, shining its warm light at me, highlighting the worn scratches on my glass canopy. I see my left wing and the balkenkreuz so proudly displayed upon it, and also the muzzle of one of my twenty-millimeter cannons jutting out from the front of the wing.

I lift my chin up to set my gaze above me and I am met with a sky littered with clouds of all shapes and sizes lit an appropriate orange by the setting sun through dirty glass. The game then decides to play its own version of the recognizable Flight of the Valkyries as I am awed by the detail of the game yet again, even though I've seen it before. Just look at those _god-damned scratches on the metal canopy frame!_ They're amazing! They are sized in but the smallest millimeters and they blend in perfectly with the thinning paint. There is even a little shadow emitted by a bump on the metal, a product of imperfect construction.

"Jesus," I say in real life. "I'll never get used to this."

I look towards the right, and my right wing is a perfect mirror image of my left, save for its different camouflage pattern and the words "WE REPLY" painted near the cockpit. My view from where I am is obscured, such that I can only see "REPLY", and not the rest of the decal which I glued onto this plane before Gaijin decided to put golden eagle price tags on them. The only other decal is a blue shield upon which is an edelweiss, painted on both sides of the plane's body, just beneath the canopy. Their position is such that I cannot see them at all.

I'm pretty sure that I am mumbling and saying a lot of words unconsciously, but I don't really care - I let my mouth loose, taking control of it only when I consciously have something to say.

"Christ," I say as I admire the landscape of Britain in all its photorealistic glory, there, beyond the wing. "This is gorgeous."

To my surprise, I get a response, somewhat unclear as it is postprocessed by the game made fuzzy to simulate the radio.

_"Oi, wanker,"_ came the intruding, accented voice. _"If you're whackin' it in your plane, switch off the goddamn tansmit!"_

What, is there another player here? War Thunder now has in-game voice chat support? I didn't even know! I think my microphone is set to auto-transmit. Let me try saying a few words...

"You playing with the Rift too?"

_"What da he- whot da fokk, mate. I ain't wankin' wid ya! Fuck off and stop transmitting, you're hurting all our goddamned ears wid ya voice!"_

My humours become choleric. How rude!

"Hey!", I say, angry, "I'm just trying to be fucking friendly here, you goddamn _scrub_. One-on-one me right now, bitch, I'll fucking deck you into the ground!"

**~O~  
****Dover Royal Air Force Base**

_"Homebase, this is Kingfinger; finished the three-hour patrol 'round the Strait, comin' in to-"_

Land. That word was not heard, because somebody, in some plane up there, keeps moaning all the goddamn time and interrupting radio transmissions.

**_"Ahh~"_**

**_"Jesus... I'll never get used to this~"_**

**_"The god-damned... wow~"_**

**_"Chriiiiist... this, is, ghoorgeous~"_**

_"Homebase, are you jacking off, over?"_

Squadron Leader Howard Fisher has had enough. _'Fucking young Liberion pilots and their goddamned hormones,'_ he thinks furiously as he moves to kill the problem. With his long, Britannic mustache neatly combed, and his eyebrows connecting together at the center and the rest of his face contorted in restrained fury, he turns a dial on the boxy machine on his desk and yells into the stubby, ribbed microphone on his desk, thick cigarette in one hand and a hot mug of coffee in the other, "Oi, wanker! If you're whacking it in your plane, switch off the goddamn transmit!"

Oh and yes, he says that in his angry voice! No one, of any rank, even those who're higher than him, save top brass, can help but to whither and obey under his mighty shout.

And so the coming reply is unexpected.

**_"You playin' with the rift,_ too?"**

What the fuck? The son of a bitch is asking him if he's jacking off with him! Why, Howard is at a loss for words and stumbles.

"What the he- what the fuck, mate?! I ain't wanking with you! Fuck off and stop transmitting; you're hurting all our ears with your goddamned voice!"

Never in his life has he experienced a flash of anger as bright as this one.

_**"Hey! I'm just trying to be fuckin' friendly here, you goddamned scrub! One-on-one me, right now, bitch, and I'll fookin' dick ya into duh groouund!" **_

Howard isn't in the mood for this. Not, at all. The look on his face, that of a mixture of incredulity, fury and confusion, says it all. This man over the radio? The guy's pushed Howard too far. A court martial is in order.

"You think you're so fucking tough," Howard replies, "You wanna fight me, you son of a bitch?" But he is cut off before he can deliver his message fully.

_**"That's right, bitch, show your ass to me and I'll fucking own you right out of the sky. Pick your plane, man, whatever kind o' plane - A-20G, fuckin' IL-2, even an oh-pee Beaufighter, bitch, and you still don't got nothin' on me!"**_**  
**

Never in his life has Howard received so much hostility - save for the Neuroi, of course - and disrespect; surely the defiling of the English language is a blatant way of saying 'screw you' without actually saying it. The Squadron Leader isn't sure what to say anymore other than colorful words and threats that he, if the wanker actually goes near to him, will act upon with utmost eagerness.

_"Homebase, this is Kingfisher. Requesting permission to land, uh, over?"_

"Permission granted."

_"Thanks."_

"Now, as for you, you son of a bitch - I want you to face me like a man. Land in here now, we're going to have a goddamned old-fashioned duel to the death with pistols, you fuck, and-"

_**"OOOHHH, OHHHH, I see! We roleplayin' now, motherfucker? You want our planes to fuck in the hangar? How about I just drop this two-fifty kay-gee on you, wherever the fuck you are, and call it a day,**** hmm? I'm not one for that honor bullshit.****"**_

Role-playing?! What in God's name does that mean? What, does the wanker think he's kidding? Oh, but he's not! In fact, under his desk, there is a case with two dueling pistols, locked, loaded, and ready to fire!

A new voice, that of a young woman's, enters the conversation before Howard can even reply to that.

_"This is Captain Yeager from the 501st Joint Fighter Wing-"_

Interrupted.

_**"Ohh, and who the fuck is this**** bitch?****"**_

_"Homebase, this is Kingfisher. Uh, I'll deliver my report later. Uh. Out."_

Words cannot describe just how offended Howard is right now. First, the motherfucker wanks off and transmits his moaning voice to God-only-knows how many frequencies for all to hear; second, he insulted and even threatened him in front of everyone; third, he says the most disgusting things to a _Witch_, a beautiful angel, humanity's elite, who metes out death to the Neuroi! How _fucking_ dare the guy?!

Shirley's response is laced with venom.

_"... what did you just say?"_

Howard roars over the radio, slamming his coffee mug on his desk, the violent sound of the act reverberating in his office.

"You insult me, even threaten me - I am mostly fine with that, but you do NOT, DISRESPECT A WITCH!"

_"Everyone, this is Lieutenant Hawkins from the four hundred forty-second, would you all kindly shut the fuck up?!"_

_"Uh... Fire Hawk requesting permi-"_

"PERMISSION GRANTED, MUST I BABY THE LOT OF YOU ALL THE GODDAMNED TIME?!"

_"O-okay."_

_"Eugh, I can't believe this,"_ says Shirley in an exasperated tone over the radio, before ceasing transmission and going off to do something else.

_**"Guys, guys, shut the fuck up! You're too loud. Look, I'm sorry for acting like I did, I didn't know this was a roleplay server.**_**"**

Everyone listening in has no idea what the guy's talking about, and Howard is no exception.

_**"Okay, guys: peace. C'mon, we can't enjoy the game if-"**_

"Oh, so this is all just a game to you?!", Howard yells at the saliva-spattered microphone, crushing his cigarette in his fingers in fury. "You're interfering with operations with your wanking and moaning and yelling, you shitbird!"

_**"Right, right. Remain in-character.**** Sorry."**_

It is at this point that the Squadron Leader frees his hands from gripping anything and just pulls at his hair in white-hot anger that rivals the sun's core in temperature. He regains his composure, and, with bloodshot eyes, speaks his next words in a cool, calm manner, so that the wanker over the radio can hear it clearly.

"Listen, you're going to run out of fuel soon, and you're gonna be forced to land. And when you do? A world of pain awaits you, son. I guarantee that."

A snicker can be heard through the speakers.

_**"Too bad the fuel counter here isn't ticking down, son. Unlimited**** fuel****."**_

And then, in the Essen Crasher's cockpit, heavy, laborious breathing can be heard from the other side of the radio.

**~O~  
The Straight of Dover  
**

_"NYAAAAAAAAAAGH!"_ roars the ass of a player as he punches his computer desk so hard that I can feel the impact even from here.

And thanks to him and all the other faggots, my mood is extremely sour.

I frown, my plane not at all wobbling in the slightest as I make various turns and loops and other aerial maneuvers in my cockpit, rather pissed off at the people in this server who take roleplaying too seriously, the sheer feeling of awe at the graphics and realism failing to defeat my choler. Or are they just roleplaying their anger? Hell if I know, but it pisses me off to no end. I try and greet them with a smile and an open hand, but no - no, they reject me, and instead of introducing me to their wonderful server and get me to start roleplaying, they act like bitches.

Pfft.

I feel nothing but contempt for them just now.

Especially the bitch that pretended that she was Shirley from Strike Witches. What the fuck is she doing right now, I wonder. Flying a P-51D and giving fellow pilots sexy tail-shots?

Heh, that's actually a pretty funny image.

As it is right now, Britain and the white cliffs of Dover are towards my right, and to my left, is France; the Strait of Dover is below me and the sky, with its setting sun, hovers above. With the inane, rage-inducing conversation gone, and only the soft music the game's playing at the moment, the intermittent rattling of the cockpit, and the roar of my aeroplane's powerful engine, to fill my ears with their sound, I fix my gaze to the scenery around me, and find vistas everywhere - especially in the water, where light from the setting sun reflects off of the waves to make the sunward side of the Strait glitter and glow.

_'Wow__'_, I mouth.

I think again, to remind myself that this is a game, about the graphics, and how they are here and how they are in reality have no difference. They are amazing, real; everything that I see, everywhere that I look - all looks real and authentic.

Wow, all that contempt and rage from before just melted away by just looking at the scenery.

Golden rays of light pouring through the sunward side of my canopy, I drop down my altitude, from 800m, so that I'm just tens of meters off the ground with a short but steep dive that nearly gives me a heart attack. With my heart pounding rapidly, and with a shaky hand on the mouse, I behold the sight that is the glittering ocean waves rushing below my aircraft.

_'Wow!'_, I mouth the word again, but this time with more feeling, before continuing. _'I wanna be a pilot, man.'_

For a few seconds, I actually consider this life-changing decision.

Before shrugging it off, of course.

_'Nah. Too much_ work.'

I look to my right, and see that I am passing the island, the one with the airstrip. I recognize it almost immediately because of the runway, and though I cannot remember its name at the top of my head, I am genuinely surprised in that it looks exactly like it is in Strike Witches. The photorealistic graphics War Thunder is displaying right now that I think only those with the Oculus Rift have the luxury of experiencing allow me to see every crack, shadow and detail on the castle, though not by much, since it's around a hundred or so meters away from me.

But then a knocking sound from the left side of my canopy draws my attention. I flick my head towards the left and I am shocked to see the distinctive blue uniform and striker unit of _Perrine H. Clostermann_, who is flying at the same speed as I am, scant few inches above the surface of my left wing, knocking at the glass of my goddamned cockpit with a pissed-off look on her face.

So looks like people can play as Witches in this server, huh.

"Jesus Christ!", I yell, startled, and she reacts by pulling away from my Messerschmitt but still matching my speed of 350km/h.

_"Can you hear me?"_ I hear her distinctive voice through the radio and I must say, that is very strange to hear her speaking in English, and I respond after a moment's hesitation.

"Y-yeah."

_"Finally! Major Sakamoto and I kept trying to talk to you through the radio but didn't even reply! What are you, awestruck by the scenery?"_

"Uhm... actually, yeah."

_"Well, go be awestruck somewhere else, because you just interrupted out combat flight training!"_

"Uhh... okay, I guess." I give in, not wanting to get into yet another fight with one of the hardcore roleplayers here. And now that I've recovered from my near-heart attack, I look at the Witch to my left, who has the words 'Perrine H. Clostermann, 12m' above her head, and examine very closely her player model. Truly have the model sculptors made Perrine's body for the Rift a true beauty - her angelic features and magnificence I once thought only possible in 2D, is translated nearly perfectly in 3D.

And the animations for her? It's so fluid, it's more liquid than water. I wonder if it's procedural because _God-damn_, it's very realistic. Lifelike.

No - it's exactly like real life.

It's wonderful, and I say to her cordially through the radio as she breaks away from me with a truly Perrine-like _"Good. Hmph."_,

"Nice player model by the way; very nice, sexy legs! And great roleplaying too, man!"

I didn't think she would just freeze in the air like that, but she did! And she blushed in a very Perrine-like, tsundere manner! Whoever is the person on the other side, I'd really, really like to give them a medal for their amazing voice acting and control over the procedural animations, and other things I've nearly no knowledge of.

_"W-w-what did you say?!"_, 'Perrine', whom the game says is now 1.3 kilometers away from me stammers, and I don't give her a reply as I begin to climb up and finish my little Rift adventure in peace, towards the darkening sky. My HUD also picks up two other targets near the Witches' castle: Yoshika Miyafuji, 2.3 km; and Mio Sakamoto, also 2.3km away from me. However, I do not pick up the last dot for some reason, but I suspect that it is Lynette Bishop.

Hot _damn,_ are they dedicated! They're reenacting the third episode of the first season!

I see the little dot in the distance that is Perrine go over to them, and I see them flying, dancing over each other, making the telltale movements of a dogfight, though just mocked and non-lethal, as they resume.

The day ends peacefully, both in the game and in real life, and I am very excited to do all of that again the next day.

Let me tell you, man:

The future is here.

The future is here, my friends.

The Oculus Rift.

The future, is fucking here.

"The future is here...", I say in a hushed, whispered tone, as I stare contemplatively at the ceiling, blanket draped over my chest and hands under my head.

"... the future... is here...", I whisper again, as I close my heavy eyelids, tired from thinking, and drift off to sleep.

**~O~  
Dining Room, Mont Saint-Michel**

"... but then this stupid Messerschmitt 109 just dives right out of the sky and throws off my aim!" Perrine relates the more prominent events of their combat flight training over dinner, all eleven members of the Strike Witches - Minna-Dietliende Wilcke, Gertrud Barkhorn, Erica Hartmann, Yoshika Miyafuji, Lynette Bishop, Mio Sakamoto, Sanya V. Litvyak, Eila Ilmatar Juutilainen, Charlotte E. Yeager, Francesca Lucchini, and of course, Perrine H. Clostermann - seated down and digging in on delicious, filling meals that many troops on the front lines will never get to taste so long as the war against the Neuroi lasts.

"Oh yeah?" Eila says, "And what did you do about it?"

"Major Sakamoto and I got angry, of course, so we yelled at him by radio but he just kept on going, so I," she puffs up her chest proudly, "volunteered to chase him down and have a word with him - and I did!"

"Go on," Eila encourages as she moves to put more foodstuff into her mouth.

"So I went over to his side and knocked on the glass of his cockpit, and he turns his head around to look at me really fast and makes the weirdest face I've ever seen; so weird that I just had to pull away from him!"

Perrine's fellow Witches, interested in her story, lean in from their chairs at varying degrees to listen better.

"And then I spoke to him again over the radio, asking if he could hear me. And he could! Turns out he could hear us all along but he seemed to be so entranced just looking at our castle here that he didn't notice!"

Several Witches make sounds of disbelief, mockery or laughter, with Lucchini's being the loudest. Gertrud is the only one who voices her disgust with strong gestures: "And you say that the plane was a Messerschmitt 109? Ah, my God, that pilot is a disgrace to Karlsland!"

Perrine continues.

"So after he agreed to stay away while we trained, he said the weirdest things! H-he told me that my legs were sexy a-and for that, he should be court-martialled!", the blond finishes, with a blush and feeling of embarrassment she didn't think would come up.

Several witches laugh, and Yoshika attempts to humanize the perverted pilot by reasoning that Perrine is, indeed, a pretty girl, which elicits a "Sh-shut up! I'll ask your for opinion when I want it!" and a blush from her, while Gertrud Barkhorn just sinks in deeper into her seat, and Lucchini sparks a sexiness contest that Erica and Shirley join immediately.

Mio Sakamoto, meanwhile, has a contemplative look, and the sound of her voice makes everyone settle down.

"It's strange, though. What is a Karlslander fighter doing in Britannia? Perrine, did you see any identification marks on the plane?"

Perrine blushes at the Major, and stumbles at her words. "Y-yes, Major. I saw the pilot's squadron emblem on the side of the plane; it's a blue shield with... what do you call that flower... ah, right, edelweiss! A blue shield with an edelweiss on it."

Erica, Minna and Gertrud noticeably become more attentive, the first one's smile suddenly dropping.

"Anything else, Perrine?" Mio asks.

"Ah, and while I in a short dive while catching up to him, I saw the words 'we reply' on the right wing."

At this, the three Karlslander Witches of the 501st - Erica, Gertrud and Minna - exchange worried glances.

"Is something wrong, commander?" a worried Lynne asks her redheaded superior, who gives her a gentle smile and dismissively says, "It's nothing."

* * *

**A/N****:** Here you go, folks: Chapter 2. Please do read it, rate it, review it, and give criticisms so that I may improve my writing style.


	3. Realization

**A/N:** I strongly suggest that you listen to /watch?v=0l_jSgTAmQ while reading any battle scene in this story.

* * *

**February 26, 1944  
The Strait of Dover, War Thunder  
**

I am met yet again with the blue waters of the Strait of Dover as I continue my game from before, my eyes glued to the lens of the Oculus Rift, joining that Strike Witches roleplay server again (the only server that seems to be available) with the goal of joining their wonderful little community. In the cockpit of my American P-39N Aircobra, I am awed, but less so than last time, by the undeniably amazing graphics that immerses me deeply into the game. My eyes squint as I look at the virtual sun to see if its harshness is the same here as in real life, and, to my painful dismay, it actually is.

"Alright," I say, having disabled my microphone from automatically transmitting and assigned the forward slash key as its hotkey, "Let's do this."

I say that, because the game is playing rising battle music and the HUD indicates fast hostile target below me cruising just a few meters above the Strait, making an impression on the waves which I can see even from here - or am I simply thinking things? Currently, I fly at an altitude of 8,368m, if my HUD's altimeter is correct, since I actually spawned at such a great height, and so the distance between us is enormous, even if I am, for the most part, flying directly above it. The placebo effect assailed me when I had put on the Rift, sending a few cold chills down my spine as I saw just how high I was flying and noticing all the clouds below me.

It must really be cold up here. Good thing our VR technology hasn't progressed yet to the point where it can stimulate your senses.

War Thunder shows planes as dots when they are far away no matter your distance. It is a common move for me to zoom in and look towards where the enemy airfield is at right after take-off in HB to see where the foe is going. I take advantage of this, and the fact that I am currently flying with an Arcade flight model - my plane will not be forced into a dive due to awkward flight surfaces - and hold the D key to perform a clockwise half aileron roll, making my plane fly inverted.

I then proceed to lift my chin up to see four dots flying in formation over blue waters toward the hostile target, which I presume is of a very large size for the game to be tracking from this distance even through the clouds. Two dots break off from the other pair as they go to assail the fast bogey, and hover behind them in in wait, forming some sort of trap. The adrenaline and exhiliration I get from doing such a stunt through the Rift's reality-beating, photorealistic graphics forces me to smile.

Then, a sinister thought comes to my mind:

I want to steal their kill.

Having rebinded the pitch and roll to the W, S and A, D keys, respectively, I hold the W key to bring up my elevators and point the propeller-laden nose, at the center of which is the muzzle of a 37mm cannon, down to the waters of the Strait as I begin my dive, acting upon my evil gaming desires. As I pick up speed and clouds go past my aircraft in its seventy-degree descent, I perform another clockwise half aileron roll to bring my plane right-side up.

I keep flicking my eyes up and towards the left to check the readings of my HUD's altimeter and speedometer. 8,000m, 7,500m, 7,000m, 6,000m; 350km/h, 450km/h, 580km/h.

As expected, there is only mild turbolence even when my aircraft is going through clouds and way past its speed limit, thanks to the fact that I am flying in Arcade Mode. My plane steadfastly withstands the pressures of nature as the game decides to ignore most of those, but unlike my aircraft, I myself am not faring very well: my heartrate is easily over a hundred beats per minute; my breathing is heavy, laborious and uneven; and my hands shake, and my eyes are forced open wide while I reconsider the ups and downs of what I'm doing - all due to fear.

"Oh God, I'm going so fast!" I exclaim, as the nose of my plane punches through another cloud, and flick my eyes towards the top-left corner of my vision to see that I am flying in excess of 800km/h, and that my altitude is just at 3,000 meters now, and dropping at a rapid rate. Since the start of my dive, I've used my mouse to make my plane fly towards where the target bogey, which the game has revealed to be a Neuroi about as large as a B-17 Flying Fortress, is going; my angle of attack has become narrower than the seventy degrees I started with as the gap between us closes.

And though the Neuroi, which I am now close enough to see that it, in fact, resembles a missile, detaches half of itself to accelerate and fly faster, it simply isn't fast enough to escape me. I mean, how could it? I am going at a full seven hundred kilometers per hour! Sure, that's a hundred km/h less than the top speed I've achieved during my dive, but that is a very, very fast velocity.

At one thousand five hundred meters from sea level, and flying over the two players who are having fun as Commander Minna and Lieutenant Eila, I tap the mouse wheel to target the Neuroi, although needlessly since the game is already tracking it. I then maneuver the mouse itself to adjust for aim lead, the indicator of which pops out far in front of the Neuroi as I get within 700 meters of it. I make it, my plane's movements sluggish due to my speed, so that my crosshairs at upon the fat, white circle where upon I should shoot - and do.

It is very hard to do in the first person cockpit view.

I slam my two fingers upon the left and right mouse buttons simultaneously, the former binded to fire my machine guns, and the latter hotkeyed to my bomber-ripping 37mm cannon. The plane's exterior is illuminated orange by the muzzle flashes of my firing guns, and I see the sight in all its glory, within the massive field of view that the Oculus Rift provides. Meanwhile, my jaw is hung open as I scream a most fearsome, and fearful, "HAAAAAAAAAAAA!"

I don't see the first of my many rounds impacting the the Neuroi since it is currently hidden away from my view through feet of airplane parts, but I do know that I am, in fact, scoring hits upon it since the game tells me so - there, towards the bottom of my screen: _Hit +450 lions +125 xp_.

It is but a few seconds before the deadly alien craft, which I am surprised to find not firing on me, surpasses my own in speed - and only by little. It comes to my view from under my plane, which I am, at the moment, maneuvering with shaking hands to be steady behind my target's tail, and I lose quite a bit of velocity by doing so, abandoning my Boom and Zoom in favor of deflection shots. The Neuroi's speeding, slowly shrinking tail in my wobbling crosshairs, I fire upon it with great eagerness - in controlled, disciplined bursts, of course - and my bullets, .50 inches in caliber, chew upon the gargantuan thing's tail fins with gusto, most of the many that miss or overshoot going off to hit some other part of the black craft.

But it is my 37-millimeter shells that make the most impact. With the foe just tens of meters away, it is impossible for me, a veteran War Thunder player, to miss. Even during my attempted Boom and Zoom, the missile-shaped alien craft noticeably shook under my shells' utter destructive capabilities, but right now, it is utterly faltering under my heavy barrage of firepower that alternates between high-explosive tracer, pure high-explosive, and armor-piercing shells every time I fire. It is faltering, in that a great section of its arse has disintegrated in the usual way the Neuroi do when hurt, and that it is, against its will, pitching its nose up in an apparent death throe, though it keeps its forward velocity.

The game then decides to reward me again; my altitude is that of the Neuroi's: 88m above sea level.

_Hit +730 lions + 230 xp_

But the added cash and experience points do little to relieve my the tension on my bowels, which I swear were going to burst right before I had begun my attempted Boom and Zoom, or the rapid drumbeats of my heart. Fully immersed in the photorealism of the world around me, my brain and even I myself am tricked that I am part of it. I swear that half of the liquid inside my body right now is nothing but adrenaline; when I am finished with this sortie, I'm going to take a long, cold shower to rid myself of this fear and excitement.

And now that the entire length of the body of the Neuroi craft is exposed to me, I pitch up my cannon-armed nose, pausing my machine gun fire, before unleashing all my guns upon the hated foe, gouging a trail of impact craters, small and wide, narrow and deep, into its crystalline flesh. I hear, or perhaps my head just makes up in expectation, a high-pitched, pained cry from the Neuroi, before a 37mm shell penetrates deep into it just before the glowing red weapon-marks on its nose, and it explodes into a powerful blast of unexplained, glittering, floaty powder, characteristic of the death of one of its kind as the song it is playing hits its climax.

The game then decides to reward me again - and in whopping amounts!

_Aircraft destroyed +35690 lions +8845 xp + 210 eagles  
__Critical hit + 1530 lions +290xp_

The blast, with its epicenter just shy of two hundred meters away from me, buffets my P-39N, whose pilot - that's me - ceases his mad victory laughter, laced with a bit of fear and exhaustion, as he panics when his aircraft suddenly attempts a zoom-climb he didn't tell it to do. Wrestling the plane down to level flight, I steady both it and my rapidly beating heart at my new altitude of 200m. My speed at a respectable 420km/h, I pass over the pair the players that had stayed behind; the game had picked them up quite some time ago, but I didn't notice them, not until now. Above their heads, I can see two names: Yoshika Miyafuji, 356m; Lynette Bishop, 358m.

Further behind me are two other names: Minna-Dietlinde Wilcke, 2.1km; Eila Ilmatar Juutilainen, also 2.1km.

It is but a short moment of quiet peace after total annihilation before I hear a voice through the radio, Eila's voice.

_"Like lightning in the storm, in rapid descent, a chariot of war, come to take the reaper away... so that's what the divination meant: you!"_

Although it's quite weird to hear her speak in English and not Japanese, I find it impressive that the person on the other side roleplaying as her either has the technical skills to emulate her voice through the mic perfectly or actually has a voice very similar if not identical to Eila's own voice actor. Or what if her voice actor is actually the one playing as her? Another thing that impresses me is the player's dedication to their act; I love how they just made up that truly Eila-like prophecy to explain my presence here!

I squint as the sun shines it golden rays through the glass of my canopy and at my eyes, and I press D to bank right, and then S to pitch up my elevators and bring me around, facing away from it, and pulling down my throttle to 60% for a calm cruising speed, before replying to 'Eila', holding the forward slash key to transmit.

"Haha, thanks. How did I do?"

I am then greeted by the voice of an English-speaking 'Yoshika Miyafuji'.

_"You were amazing, pilot-san! You made it look like it was easy!"_

_"Yeah, you looked great, even if I did expect something,"_ agrees 'Eila'.

Even though I know the players behind them are just playing their assigned roles, I can't help but feel flattered.

"Ah, it actually was," I say honestly. "I just had to, you know, shoot at it's arse. Uhm...", my hesitation at asking about their RP community allows 'Minna' to talk to me.

_"Congratulations on your aerial victory, pilot. Taking down a large-type Neuroi is no easy feat,"_ she praises, _"But I have to ask - from which squadron are you? There aren't many Liberion fighter wings stationed in Britannia or Gallia."_

Well, I definitely hadn't thought of that. Might as well tell them the name of my squadron - the name of my game clan, that is. I suppose I'll ask them about their RP community later.

"Kampfgeschwader 508," I say proudly.

_"Excuse me, but could you say that again?"_ 'Minna' asks.

"I said, I am a pilot of Kampfgeschwader 508," I duly respond.

_"I... thought that the 508 was a Karlslander squadron."_

"It's a multinational squadron, but I'm just flying an American plane today," I reply cheerfully.

There is a moment of awkward silence.

_"Do you mind if I take a closer look at your plane, pilot...?"_

Her tone of voice is that when one requests of a name, and so I give one for her to call me with; but I do not know why she'd want to inspect my aircraft. I wonder if 'Minna' has something against my clan.

"Just call me Magos, Commander."

_"Full name?"_

Uhh...

"Magos Mechanicus, ma'am."

Oh well. Looks like I'm stuck with that awful name for as long as I play on this server.

_"Rank?"_

Well, I surely hadn't thought of that. I'm level fourteen, so...

"Second Lieutenant, ma'am."

_"Okay then, Lieutenant... Mechanicus, do you mind if I take a look at your plane?"_

"Not at all, ma'am."

I wonder where she's going with this. Surely, my P-39N isn't special, is it? With a wingspan of 10.4m, a length of 9.2m, and standing at a height of 3.8m, It's just like all the thousands of others owned by people playing the game, with decals painted on it to personalize it, and mark it as my own. On the left side of the plane, from just before the propeller to the exhaust stacks below the cockpit, are bold, white words, all capitalized. "FOR FREEDOM", they say. Taking up most of the surface of the right wing is a giant version of the stylized white bird's wing found in the Axis' decal set. And, upon my rudder, is the edelweiss-on-blue-shield Luftwaffe emblem.

These bright decals serve to liven up the plane's drab, brownish-green paint job.

I fly towards the four witches at only 270km/h due to my tight turn and lowered throttle, and 'Minna', with her nimble striker unit, matches her speed with my own, and begins to fly around my plane, seemingly focused on my decals. Inevitably, see a glimpse of what many young boys would consider as heaven as she goes over my war machine, since she does not, in undeniable fact rooted deep within the core of the Universe, wear pants. I notice that the look on her face is that of solemness, and I wonder why that is. Does she suspect me of something?

_"The blue shield with the edelweiss,"_ she says, _"is it your squadron's emblem?"_

"Ah, no," I tell her, "It's my, err, personal heraldry."

From the back of my plane, she zooms up next to my cockpit in a burst of speed that is quickly lost, and my brain struggles to comprehend just how striker units work, before it reminds both me and itself, that the things operate on magic.

_"I see,"_ she says, looking at me through the scratched glass. _"Last year, a Messerschmitt 109 pilot with your name and personal heraldry crashed just after take-off in Essen, Karlsland. Do you know anything about that?"_

Ah, she's talking about my catastrophic test flight!

"Yeah, that was me. I'm really sorry about that," I say with a smile.

Her reaction is not what I expected: a look of incredulity and confusion. _"You didn't die?"_, she asks.

You'd think that she'd have dropped the act by now and welcomed me to the server.

"I think I did. It panned out after all; tree hit me right in the head, I think," I duly respond with honesty and a shrug, finding myself to be enjoying her interview.

She furrows her brow as she digests what I just said_._

_"You think you died? I saw your corpse! How are you alive?"_

Her serious, almost accusing stare, and the way her lips move when she talks make me doubt that this is a game, and is, in fact, real life, for my own is dull, monotonous and boring. The fact that it does makes me say a mental thank-you to Sergey Orlovskiy for creating the Oculus Rift, and it also makes me smile, which I think that 'Minna' interprets as mockery from her agitated reaction as I tell her,

"I respawned, of course."

_"You did what?"_, she asks, confused, and, as I said, visibly agitated. While I should be admiring the dedication of the player behind her to their act, I feel only annoyance right now. What, is it against the server rules to go out of character even just a little bit?

Out of the blue, it dawns upon me to check on her profile, for I wonder about the player's stats in the game.

"Hold on, let me check your profile," I inform her, and she adopts a look of surprise.

_"Wait, you have documents about me in your cockpit?"_

"You could say that. I'll have all the info I'd want from you with a few key presses," I reply, tapping the TAB button, and filling my field of view with the player list one sees when playing a game-generated or dev-prepared mission alone or with three other players. I expected to see the player list of an online battle, where a full window is divided into two halves to list the battle statistics of players on both teams, not this. Without any of the usual bots or other players to accompany me, only I am listed.

What, am I playing singleplayer here? Impossible.

I tap the TAB button twice to close and bring up the player list again to refresh it. There is no change: the only player listed, is me.

"I can't see your name in here," I say.

_"Lieutenant Mechanicus, I'm bringing you in for questioning. Land at the Dover Royal Air Force Base immediately."_

I close the player list, and then flick my eyes down to the purple line of text that informs me of the status of my connection to the server.

_S: KBits in 0.0|0.0 / Out 0.0|0.0|0.0, Ping 0, Packet Loss %0.00|%0.00, Reliable %0.00_

A perfect connection, fully synchronized with the server with less than zero milliseconds of pinging time: impossible.

Probably because there is no server.

...

Could it be?

Is it even possible?

I press Shift and TAB to bring open the Steam in-game user interface, and see that it is 11:36 in the evening. My exhausted body, still swimming in adrenaline but droopy overall due to the new singleplayer mystery hanging over me, then decides that it's a good time to tell me that I am as sleepy as a dog injected with a syringe of elephant-grade tranquilizer. I press Shift and TAB again to close it, and I crane my head around to look at Minna.

"Do I have to?" I ask her, and my change in mood, from perky to depressed, makes me sound like a child being told that it's bedtime.

_"You do. This is an order coming from a superior officer, Lieutenant."_

I swear, her gaze is slowly boring a hole through the glass.

You know, I've been doubting that this was but a simple game since my second plunge into the Rift.

My mind puts all of my doubts together and begins to reason:

Artificial intelligence hasn't come to the point where such human responses are responsible. As far as I know, the farthest we've gone is some chatbot in a blue box, a part of some classified research project conducted by shady, suspicious men. The models, textures, shading, lighting - all of it is photorealistic, identical to that of real life's. The animations, especially for the Witches, and most likely all other people though I haven't seen them up close yet, are so fluid, with even the subtlest of movements their facial muscles are capable of doing displayed. War Thunder is only about six or seven or so gigabytes in its current state when installed; it is impossible that all this data is compressed into oblivion and crammed into the game's files, and the complexity of everything makes me doubt that my computer is even capable of processing anything that I am looking upon right now.

So either I'm hallucinating, having a lucid dream, or actually playing a gamemode I simply haven't noticed before.

Or I could have, you know, punched a hole through to a different Universe, and the Rift is the vessel that protects me and keeps everything on both sides stable as I violate the laws of physics.

Even if it sounds so far-fetched.

Or am I simply thinking things? I know that I'm quite prone to flights of fancy.

However, the notion that I am actually in and changing things in the world of the Strike Witches is very appealing to me, for the infinite possibilities will bring me an endless amount of fun; and so, I choose to believe that.

And so, quite easily, I accept that I am influencing another Universe.

I... am actually quite disappointed at my lack of further resistance. Am I not as logical as I thought I was?

Ah, but isn't my logic here flawless?

Dismissing those questions with a mental hand gesture, I meet Minna's furrowed brow and antagonizing look with my indifferent own that conceals my feelings of excitement.

"Okay," I agree, and tap the M key to bring up the map, immediately spotting the blue strip quite some distance away towards the North that is the runway of the aforementioned air base.

**~O~  
February 26, 1944, Present Day  
Dover Royal Air Force Base Interrogation Room # 1  
**

I am in an interrogation room.

Can you believe it?

Here I am, inside a small concrete room whose only furnishings are a table and two wooden chairs, one of which is the firm resting place of my butt - at least, I think it's firm; I can only feel my own wooden chair through my ass.

So I'm guessing that they feel about the same.

I was quite surprised when I landed and found myself actually exiting the airplane after holding down the J key for thrtee or so seconds. The controls in, what I call, _infantry mode_, are exactly that of Call of Duty 4's, with 'F' being the 'use' key, 'V' being the quick melee key, and the all-important W, A, S and D keys as my movement keys. Various servicemen were giving me weird looks as I went to explore the airbase, escaping the uniformed men who were going to escort me to the room I'm in right now, suddenly sprinting at odd times due to my impatience with the slow, default walking speed, and tinkering with interactable objects - that is, everything within my reach, even a tiny beetle on the grass, which I picked up and threw at an Liberion fighter pilot with the 'Fire' key, the left mouse button.

Of course, the guy was incredibly offended. I'm sure he wouldn't have, if our relationship was friendly, but we had just met and I threw a bug at him. He spoke the meanest things to me and I apologized profusely through my microphone, but he wouldn't back down, the blond idiot.

It's quite understandable; he looks like a person with a temper.

But I feel that I'm a tad bit too sleepy to deal with this, so I just go and try to move away from him.

But he blocks me, moving in front of where I am, trying to intimidate me with a hostile, threatening stance, and bragging about his seven Neuroi kills like some thirteen-year-old who thinks he's elite because he took down eight He 111's in his Beaufighter on Operation: Hardest Day. To my genuine surprise, a line of text appeared in my view, right in the center, one that gave me a feeling of ambivalence, before acting upon it when he shoved me:

_Press F to punch_

And I did - I tapped the F key on my keyboard and my fist then cocked back and slammed into the right side of his face like lightning, his failed attempt at simultaneously parrying and sidestepping away from the attack forcing him into an awkward stance as my fist connected with his cheek, sending him onto the ground. Though my HUD was, and still is, that of War Thunder's standard, the fuel and ammo counters are always visible now that I'm in infantry mode and locked in their current readings of 0 and 72:00:00, respectively - 0, because they've confiscated my gun - the 'F' in the line of text was yellow, while the rest of the phrase was white, exactly like that of Call of Duty's quick-time events.

And then, as he was moving to get his arse up from the ground, and as Britannian servicemen were rushing from the nearby and open hangar to stop our scuffle, another line of text popped up right in the center of my vision:

_Press F_

Press F to do what?

Fearing that tapping the key might make me kill the guy, I hold back and let him get up, since the people rushing in to stop our little scuffle were close. As he had begun to charge at me with fury anew, he bore his teeth and growled like some sort of rabid, angry animal, but there was no way in hell that I was gonna tap the key and kill him or have him hurt me, even if I couldn't - and still can't - feel anything, and so I moved the mouse around to turn my virtual - no, _other real body_, around and held shift to sprint away from him.

A dozen or so quick paces later, I released my hold on the W key and turn around once again, confident that the Britannians from the hangar were restraining him. And thank goodness, they were!

After that, the men who were to drag me into this room caught up with me, and I didn't resist and went along with them as a small sorry to the angry Liberion pilot whom I threw a bug at.

Hm.

So yeah, here I am, probably being watched by some shady, high-ranking, uniformed men through the one-way mirror in one of the walls here. I open the Steam user interface and see that the time is 1:39AM in real life.

Have I told you how bland, depressing and psychologically torturing this room is? I have been waiting for two whole hours now just waiting for Minna, who had broken off and gone back with the three other girls to their island fortress when the two Hawker Hurricanes to escort me to the Dover airfield appeared, to show up!

My character's body - no, _my other real body_'s posture as I sit upon this chair is perfect. I do not slouch, and I have my hands together neatly on the surface of the table before me like a good high-school student. From what I gather, I am not able to control my other self in any other way aside from the usual FPS controls and quick-time events. I look down and take notice of my clothing for the umpteenth time tonight due to boredom: I wear the usual flight uniform of the United States Air Force's servicemen during the Second World War: green pants and long-sleeves, over which is a yellow flight jacket.

The sound of the turning doorknob forces my attention upon it, and then there, standing on the doorway is a very Britannian-looking, middle-aged man with a long, magnificently combed mustache and balding hair.

"Get out of here," he says in a heavily accented, vaguely familiar voice. "Commander Wilcke sincerely apologizes for her overreaction, and so you're free."

Ah, so I stayed up this late waiting for something that wouldn't come.

"Free?" I echo him, "But didn't I punch one of your pilots?"

He gives a loud "Ha!" that makes my ears ring. "Ah, oho~! I hate that guy, so you can go. Don't tell anyone, hm?", he says with a cordial smile.

The idea that my other self mimics my facial expression in 'real life' bubbles up into my head as I smile and thank him before pressing the F key and standing up from my seat.

"And here's your Colt back," he says as he hands me my confiscated pistol when I walk to the doorway. _Press F to take Colt M1911_; I grip it in one of my gloved hands and sink it into my holster, and the ammo counter at the top-left corner of my vision changes its reading from 0 to 24, counting the three full magazines I have with me; one is in the gun.

"By the way, from what unit are you from?", he asks.

Uhh...

I choose to lengthen my stay here; he's probably going to ask me a lot of questions.

"Kampfgeschwader 508, sir."

Hey, it's not my fault that my mother ingrained the virtue of honesty into my head at a young age.

"Hmm?" he raises an eyebrow, "Aren't you Liberion, sonny? That sounds like a Karlslander squadron."

"Yeah, but it's multinational, sir. We've got all kinds of planes, all kinds of pilots, all aces" I tell the truth; everyone in the clan has killed five players or more, even if they did so over multiple deaths. "It's also just been founded, so it hasn't made any waves yet, yeah," I then immediately lie.

He, to my surprise, believes me, nodding. "Aces, huh? Wow! Guess that explains the loud markings on your plane; hehe, _'For Freedom!'_ You really want the Neuroi to see you, dontcha? Well, don't let me keep you, son - we've gassed up your Aircobra to full tank and it's ready to go; it's at the start of the runway. If you wanna call your undoubtedly worrying CO, private McCormick here," he pulls a passing young soldier towards us, "can show you to a phone, can't you, Lewis?"

"Yes, sir. I can sir," is his response.

"Ah, I'll just go ahead and fly back to base, sir."

"Alright, alright. Good job on killing the large-type Neuroi today, by the way! Commander Minna told us and started to praise you for your splendid work today right after we said that we couldn't find the documents she specifically asked for on your person or your plane save your gun and dog-tags. The fact that you and your plane are unscathed is a testament to your status as an ace! Ah, but she also told me to warn you and be wary of her the next time you two ever meet, but her tone wasn't really that serious so I'd shrug it off as a joke if I were you, haha~!"

Oh dear, how flattering.

"Thank you, sir," I say, before duly tapping F as the game prompts me to salute Howard Fisher, whose name I extracted from the words displayed on the breast of his uniform.

Lewis McCormick, Howard Fisher and I then go our separate ways, with me going through a short, thirty-second maze of halls and passageways, assisted by my handy-dandy radar at the top-right corner of my vision which conveniently shows a limited topography of the immediate area, functioning like a mini-map. At the end of my waypoint, in the entrance of the building, a busy secretary, whom I am not so surprised to see that she's lacking garments below the hip, noisily works upon her typewriter and a Britannian pilot chats her up as I go through the double-doors and enter the cold embrace of the night outside.

A cloud of my condensing breath puffs out of my mouth as my other self moves to shiver and rub his gloved hands instinctively as a cold breeze that I cannot see blows over him gently and as my headphones sound a triumphant little beep at my having completed this set of waypoints before another one, presumably leading to my plane, attaches itself to my radar-minimap.

It is seven in the evening in the 'game', I think. Various electric lamps mounted on posts and on the high surfaces of buildings illuminate the area before their hot bulbs in the darkness. At a distant road, I see the bright headlights of what I presume to be a supply truck as it enters the airbase, duly through the gatehouse. In the vast area of land of the military complex I'm in, silhouettes of people move around in the darkness, being lit at times as they pass under lamps.

My lonesome walk to my very distant, and very deadly aeroplane is accentuated when War Thunder decides to play slow, orchestral music that fits the mood, akin to the music played in the first mission of the tactical FPS I'm pretty sure was played by only one person - that's me - _Hidden & Dangerous II,_ when you've not been detected by the enemy; its title is plain, simplistic: _'Arctic - Quiet'_.

The 'game' is playing a moving, somewhat sad piece, probably in mockery now that I've realized that what I am 'playing' isn't a game, but a whole other Universe in which I've dangerous supernatural powers. Or is it playing the song simply because of the current conditions, where I am planting my feet - holding the W key, that is - one step at a time upon slightly muddy, damp soil, in a very moody night after a very eventful day?

Either way, I enjoy it. I enjoy it as I think of the role I am to play for the future; I know that my presence here can have a big impact on the world I am messing with through a proxy.

_I will help the people here_, I decide. _I will grind and grind and grind, to reach the highest of levels, so I can get the jets and mete out terrible death to the Neuroi._

My other self bumps his fists together as I myself do, momentarily stopping as the W key is released.

That is interesting. You know, I'd probably move to try that again but I am too sleepy. It's probably just past 2:00 AM in real life.

Eventually, I reach my plane. I press the spacebar to climb up on the left wing, its metal surface eliciting a feeling of coldness in my hands as a placebo effect is bubbled up by my brain. With careful steps - and careful taps of the W key - I walk towards the cockpit, the interior nearly pitch-black in the dead of night with nothing to light it.

_Hold J to enter aircraft_

And I do. After three seconds, my pilot goes to open the canopy, hop into the seat, secure himself, and then close it. I stifle a gasp as the sounds outside of my Aircobra are muffled when I lock the canopy in place, for I find the realism to be _very__ realistic_.

_Press I to start engine_

I obey, and I tap the I key. My other self's hands go all over the cockpit, flicking up switches, pushing buttons, and doing a whole manner of other things before the engine growls to life, before settling into a quiet purr. After that is done, the various instruments before me are lit up by some lights in the cockpit so that I could actually read them in the night.

I radio air traffic control - or whatever they call it; I am not well-versed in any subject about planes.

"Homebase, this is the... uh... pilot brought in from eariler. Permission to take off?"

_"Roger that; the runway is yours. Happy_ _hunting. No callsign?"_

Uhh...

Um...

... think of a name...

"It's 'Ghostrider'. And thanks."

_"Oookay then, Ghostrider. Spook those Neuroi to death for us, will ya?"_

I put the throttle to forty percent and the purr of my aircraft becomes a perpetual growl as I go use the mouse to align it with the runway, repositioning the plane from the side, to the center thereof. Once that is done, I hold down shift, passing through 100% of throttle strength to activate War Emergency Power. My war machine quickly goes to 90, to 140, to 180 kilometers per hour as it chews through scores of meters of runway, before I take off at 230 kilometers per power, the shaking and bumping of my undercarriage disappearing as I leave the ground for the air and pull my wheels up into its body.

I quickly gain altitude, even if my angle as I ascend is rather shallow. The clouds, quite low, are just at a thousand and five hundred meters above sea level, and when my plane melts away into them, I quickly press ALT and F4, ignoring the friendly target climbing and gaining altitude just a kilometer or so away from me.

Whoever that is, it's impossible for them to notice me, not through these clouds.

I then take off the Rift quickly and rest it on my CPU box, my brain adjusting as my transfer from one Universe to another did not even have a transition. Then, with heavy eyes and, undoubtedly, eyebags, I press the big square button on the box to shut off my PC, before throwing myself bodily onto my bed, my consciousness dissipating as sleep takes me away in just a matter of seconds.

It is the 18th of September, year 2013 Anno Domini, and the time is 2:41 in the morning.

Goodnight.

* * *

**A/N****:** Well, here you go: the third chapter of Through the Rift. Please review and send criticisms. And I should really get a beta-reader for this. Who wants to volunteer?

foldguy24: Thank you for your suggestions. I've cooked up for a great move our MC can make from what you said.

PurpleTardis: Damn right, it will - and there'll be lots of it.

MrWolfDog: Thanks, mate. I'll be adding you soon; you'll recognize me, I'm sure of it.

ultima-owner: Yeah. Too bad you have to pay two hundred eagles to get it in the game now, or achieve the ridiculous requirements.

MrManlyMan: Thank you for your encouraging words.

XxDELTAxX: Good to see that I'm bringing more money to Gaijin's coffers!

edboy4926: And you're getting more! How do you like it so far?


	4. Glory

**September 18, 2013, Late Afternoon**  
**Real Life**

_Continue your game?_

_Yes._

_No._

My mouse cursor rests idly upon the window, far away from either option for safety, that War Thunder shows immediately every time I log-in nowadays, as I think of the possible catastrophe that is to have myself forever disconnected from the Strike Witches Universe if I choose the latter option.

Nope, I'm not having that. No, sir.

Not after nearly dozing off several times at work since I had only four hours of sleep last night.

Damn you, Minna.

_'Eh, it's not worth risking it',_ I decide, and so I click on "Yes", and the game immediately loads the portal to the other Universe or whatever behind the scenes so I can get to 'playing'.

As of now, I am troubled. Troubled because the main menu becomes darkened and inaccessible to me once the window that is my gateway to the Other Side pops up; which means that I cannot use my money or experience points for buying new planes or upgrading my current ones, or training my crewmen. It's disheartening, because from my last adventure through the Rift, I found out that the Neuroi are big lion, xp, and eagle cash cows that are easily milked by big guns, and that some of them are probably overspecialized to death and can't - or at least don't - fire at you under the right circumstances.

Or so I think.

Neuroi beams can magically reangle themselves after traveling a few inches from the red weapon-tile they'd sprouted from to strike at targets no matter their direction.

So why didn't that V-2 Rocket Neuroi fire at me while I was utterly sodomizing it with six machine guns, two of them firing .50 caliber bullets, and a 37mm cannon with my P-39N?

Hmm...

What, was it scripted or something? Surely, it saw the threat that I posed.

Or was it just a sad, sad newbie?

Heh.

Oh wow, that actually drew a little giggle from me.

It's actually a funny thought - to me, at least - and so I conclude upon that: I do declare that the Neuroi whom I utterly blasted out of existence the day before didn't try to shoot me down or even evade me when I got to its tail, because it was a complete and utter greenhorn of a soldier. Or whatever the Neuroi call their fighting men - no, _things;_ their fighting things. Though the Neuroi will surely come to imitate witches later like in the anime, I am highly doubtful of the existence of gender within their mysterious race. After all, aren't they all just unexplained robotic enemies put there by Humikane Shimada for the witches to fight?

Wait - does Shimada know that his work can be toyed with through the Oculus Rift?

Is he in spectator mode, watching me and the possible other gits go about adventuring in the magical world that he created and I'm about to plunge into?

Is he laughing his ass off every time one of us flounders and stumbles at our interactions with the cast and other characters?

Hell, is there even anyone else with me when I'm playing?

Probably not. Perfect synchronization with 0 milliseconds of pinging time, remember?

And what about War Thunder's developers, Gaijin? Do they know of this?

I hope not.

I know, it's selfish, but I sincerely hope that only I am the only 'real' person playing in this magnificent sandbox.

I don't want any information about this leaked.

I want to keep all this to myself.

All of this, as my personal playground - all to myself.

It feels really good, whether I am on the ground or in the air, for in the Witches' universe, I am a being of power, even if being forced to go through everything in terrifying first-person (I pressed the change-view key many times while I was taking off at the Dover RAF Base and nothing happened): I am effectively immortal with respawns and reconnects; I have a fully-functioning, incredibly useful heads-up display; I know the show's plot; and I am playing in _Arcade Mode_, where the flight models are so simplified that any aircraft of my choosing can do the most ridiculous maneuvers and the risk of stalling is nil. The lead indicator is most helpful as well, though it is kind of misleading at times, especially when enemies are within a hundred meters of you.

But it can't be that bad to share this wonderland with another. Hell, I'd totally bro it up with whomever I meet, and we'd laugh as we mess with everyone's heads. The witches, the Allied top brass, even the Neuroi - it'll be funny, hilarious.

I can see it, their frustrated expressions, as they try to figure out the pair of aircraft and their pilots who suddenly and mysteriously materialize out of nowhere to mete out terrible, terrible death to the Neuroi. I can see Rommel's scrunched brow, Montgomery stroking his chin thoughtfully, and Patton just scowling at the reports he's reading, before labeling us as _'glory-hogging sons of bitches' _giving us a catchy nickname, like, say, _The Angels of Death_.

Wait, no, that sounds like something cheesy, a name that one of Square Enix's Final Fantasy writers would come up with.

Oh well.

Yep. I can already see the headlines in the Witch-world's newspapers: _'Th__e Angels of Death: Saving Our Fighting Men!' _

Saving their fighting men indeed, by killing Neuroi left and right, definitely - and all while we're helping people by doing other things (though I haven't thought up of anything yet), of course. With great power comes great responsibility, after all.

Spider Man said that, and I will follow his saying.

Or was it Spider Man's dead uncle?

Who knows? I don't feel like pressing Alt and TAB to Google it.

The briefing screen which shows a topographic map of the area I'm about to spawn in (which is still the Strait of Dover, by the way) is overlayed by a window that lets me choose which aircraft to fly after the 'game' has finished punching a doorway through to the Witch-universe. My mouse cursor flies and hovers over various icons, making a pop-up box appear that lists the stats of the aircraft, before I settle with the German Dornier 217 J-1 heavy fighter. With its four machine guns and four 20mm cannons, I shouldn't have any problem with blasting any Neuroi I meet this time out of existence. Its two turrets should also keep smaller Neuroi off my back.

Plus, the fact that the developers haven't modeled a virtual cockpit for it yet should force me to fly it in third-person, where I will be safe from heart attacks and phantom pains from the placebo effect.

I double-click upon its icon in the window, and the flight configuration screen then presents itself before me.

Interestingly, the following settings are greyed out and locked to me:

_Date: March 03, 1944_

_Time: 1500_

_'Looks like the game has a roller coaster ride planned out for me for this session,'_ I think to myself with a small amount of strange ambivalence that is a mixture of excited anticipation and dread, before going to click upon everything else.

_Difficulty: Arcade Battles_

_Fuel and Ammo: Unlimited_

_Secondary Weapons: bomb 8x50 kg_ - For if there's a large-type Neuroi present, I can drop these right on its back!

_Shell rack: 7.92mm ammunition belt with tracers_

_Shell rack #2: 20mm ammunition belt for air targets_

_Shell rack #3: 13mm turret ammunition belt with AP shells_

_Camouflage: Default _- Aye. With this skin, my plane looks like a flying, sleek, black whale with guns on its nose.

_Guns targeting distance (m): 300_

_Vertical targeting: No_

_Bomb activation time (sec): 0_

_Rocket activation distance: Impact_

_Fuel amount: 30m_

_Modification of aircraft: Current_

But there are two settings that either I haven't noticed during my last three Rift sessions, or just hadn't existed until now.

_Make room?: No_

_Join room: No servers available_

A server?

Wait, you mean I can play with other people?

Other people with the Rift?

Or even people without the Rift?

No, I don't think so; you must have an Oculus Rift to play in the Witches' universe... right?

Hm...

I get a pain in my temples as my eyebrows scrunch together and I contemplate upon these two settings, but only for a moment, as I then quickly conclude that having someone with god-powers to fight with, Rift or not, would be beneficial to me, the Witches, and humanity on the other side. The Neuroi would then have to contend with not just one, but two very big problems.

However, I fear that the people to play with me will have less than likable personalities. I truly fear for the Witches' safety, because anyone who's watched Strike Witches has had lustful thoughts regarding main cast, and us players are gods in their world; and though the Witches have magical powers, we have quick-time events and infinite respawns. Thus, they can do nothing permanent to us. We can torment them, break them, and probably even spy on them as they change clothes in spectator mode since they're regarded by the game as friendly aircraft, hence their cross-shaped blips when they're represented on the radar.

With enough effort, they can even be our mind-broken slaves.

But that's just me being paranoid! No human being will be so heartless when they realize that the people on the other side are, well, real people!

Right?

Right.

Of course I'm right.

And so,

_Make room?: Yes_

And then I depress the little bar at the bottom-right corner that says "Ok".

_'Please put on the Oculus Rift'_, says the game, and I duly obey, grabbing the boxy device from the top of my CPU case and putting on, strap over my head and soft foam against my cheeks and all, eyes closed as I adjust it, before opening them upon hearing the muffled roar of twin engines through inches of thick steel through my headphone's speakers.

Painfully bright sunlight, most alien to me at the moment, makes my eyes squint as they haven't adjusted yet from the transition from dimly-lit room to aircraft cockpit, high in the sky in the early afternoon.

A cockpit.

Oh well, I should have expected it. No easy third-person for me, it seems.

I look behind me to see a thick metal plate. In the grip of my hand is the handle of the control column right in front of me. Beyond that is the glass gunsight situated atop a panel encrusted with a dizzying amount of gauges and switches, most of their functions unknown to me. I'm not even going to be making descriptions for them. I know _nothing_ before me in this aircraft, except for the speedometer which reads about the same as my HUD's own: 325km/h. I also notice a few gauges that read the temperature of what I assume to be the twin engines of the plane. I also notice that it is not at all cramped in here, and that although there is hard metal and glass at my left, there is empty space towards my right, leading to the other areas of the large aeroplane.

_Press F to stand up_

Oh wow, really? You mean I can go and explore a fully-functioning war machine from World War II, game? Not many in the world have this opportunity!

I tap F, and my controls switch to that of infantry mode's. With my mouse and keyboard, I step into the empty space and am disappointed when I only see the back of my top turret gunner who's sitting on his comfy leather chair, alert for any signs of Neuroi. Right in front of him is a solid metal wall; looks like a dead end. I wonder, though: is he my bombardier as well as my top turret gunner or- sweet Emperor on the Golden Throne, I did not notice the gap between him and I and the lowered floor made of glass that my lower turret gunner lays upon. I was just about to step into it; I surely would have fell into it and injured us both!

Regaining my composure which had slipped for half a second, I call out to them. Perhaps they can talk?

"Hey guys."

...

There is no response. It is not surprising, though, since dominant sound is the roar of the Dornier's powerful engines, which I can see through glass if I turn my head left or right.

And so, I echo myself, but loudly this time.

"Hey, guys!"

And I see both of my gunners flick their heads around to look at me.

"Jesus Christ!" I yell and step back in terror, for they have no faces.

Where one would expect eyes, there are none. Where one would expect lips, there are still none. Though their brows, noses, chins and cheeks are well-defined, they've no eyebrows, and I cannot see if they have hair or ears as their headgear obscures much of their heads. Akin to Slenderman, they look at me with alabaster, featureless features. And boy, is it terrifying. They're staring at me as if I am expected to do something, and yet here I am, scared before them, the... _monsters_ I'm supposed to count on keeping the Neuroi off my tail. Their separate gazes each pierces through to my soul and injects my heart with the familiar feeling of dread.

"C-can you even see without eyes?!", I ask an inappropriate question, unconsciously speaking out what I have in my mind.

To my surprise, they nod, and their head movements are in perfect synchronization as they bob their head two times.

And it scares me even more.

"C-c-can you talk?!" I ask another question, stuttering, failing to unnecessarily hide my fear - unnecessarily, because I know that my two gunners know full well that I am absolutely terrified of them.

To this question, they shake their heads in an apparent negative. Looks like they can't; obviously, because they have no mouths.

And though I am sure that they mean no harm (they are my gunners, after all, and are probably slaved by the game to protect me no matter what), I'm not going to talk to them further; their creepiness is insufferable! I jump back into the pilot's seat with a quick combination of SHIFT, D, and F, along a head turn in real life so I wouldn't have to bear their unnerving stares.

With my heart beating unhealthily fast, I place a hand over my chest in real life to calm myself down and flick my eyes up and towards the right to see that there are six friendly aircraft on my radar, represented as blue crosses, flying in formation and at roughly the same speed and heading as I within four to five kilometers away from me. The marked enemy whose target brackets and distance I can see through the metal cockpit, is not upon my radar because it is too far at ten kilometers away, and coming rapidly towards me. I assume that, if the 'game' is indeed following the chronological order of the first season of Strike Witches, then this would be the fourth episode, and that the single enemy target is a large-type Neuroi and the friendly blips are Minna, Gertrud, Mio, whats-her-face, whats-her-name, and boob-lover.

My mind is too troubled to remember such complex names at the moment.

I then flick my eyes over to the top-left corner of the screen and am forced to turn my head a bit toward the right (where my terrifying gunners are) as the sun assaults me with its harsh light. I see that my altitude is 5,623 meters, and that my speed is 375 km/h.

I gulp, pausing my terror-induced rapid breathing.

Dear Lord. War Thunder is the last game I'd expect to get a scare from.

But those thoughts are driven away as I see a rather unexpected line of text towards the bottom-right: _[KG508] Kebab_Eater has joined._

Oh boy.

I may not know him, even though we're both in the same clan, but I know full well that it's time to bro it up. However, my brain demands proof that another player is indeed here, and so I immediately flick my eyes down to the meaningful purple line of text at the bottom of my vision.

_S: KBits in 0.0|0.0 / Out 0.0|0.0|0.0, Ping 0, Packet Loss %0.00|%0.00, Reliable %0.00_

Impossible. The game room is serviced by Gaijin's servers; the host, which is me, does not have his machine create the game room itself.

So why is my connection absolutely perfect? It can't be because I'm playing alone, because I can see Eating_Kebab's Bf 109 towards my right, just a hundred or so meters away from me.

_'Magic, obviously,'_ I logically conclude. What other reason could there be?

Ah. And in true Kampfgeschwader 508 fashion, he has made it so that two decals combined to say the words "My Baby cock" on the left wing of his plane.

Charming.

I hear and enjoy my squadron buddy's sounds of fascination as he beholds the sheer realism of the 'game world' for the first time. Even though the fear I duly received from my faceless gunners is still there, I can't help but manage to grin. Was I as bad as him when I first put the Rift on? He sounds like someone receiving service in a strip club, and looks as if he's high on some forbidden drug, glancing around with widened eyes and a dumb, stupefied look on his face - and I know this, because I rolled the mousewheel upwards and zoomed as far as I could while I was looking at his cockpit.

So it seems that my theory, that your character in-'game' imitates your facial expression in real life, has been proven.

Neat.

_"Daaaamn~"_

_"Wow~"_

And he does the most disturbing moans which I silently cringe at, before he finally notices me and says hello.

_"Oh hey there, mate. Didn't see you."_

His accent betrays his being British, or maybe Australian. I can't really determine which.

"Hi," I say, "You playing with the Rift on, too?"

_"Yeah, mate. It's amazing so_ _far. Everything looks real!"_

"Yeah, the graphics are way better than they are on the monitor. How'd you join my server, by the way?"

_"Ahh... uhh, how'd I join your what?"_

Seems like the beautiful scenery's distracting him.

"How'd you join this game room, man?"

_"Yeah, the game just asked me if I wanted to 'go on an adventure' and I clicked 'yes'."_

Interesting.

_"Why're you asking?"_

"I password-locked it," I lie, "So I was just wondering."

_"Ah. You want me to leave, man? I'm okay with that."_

"Nope. Feel free to play with me, man."

_"Thank you."_

"What difficulty level are you playing in?", I ask.

_"Huh?"_

"Arcade, Historical, Full Real - which one?"

_"Full Real. I've a joystick. Why, aren't you too?"_

Well, looks like he's going to be rather useless in his current state. It must have been why it took him some time to notice me: in FRB, neither your teammates nor your enemies are labeled and marked. You yourself must do the identification. Friendly fire is a natural occurrence.

"Bad idea, man. We're fighting Neuroi today. Switch to Arcade or HB."

_"Neuroi?"_

"Big, black aliens with giant laser beams."

_"Really? You're kidding."_

I guess he doesn't know much about Strike Witches.

"Naw, man, I'm serious. I shot one down earlier today. Died like ten times before I downed it and got thirty thousand lions," I lie, "And I was playing in Arcade Mode, like I am now."

_"... so you're not playing in FRB? I thought difficulty level was defined by server."  
_

"Not when you're playing with the Oculus Rift."

_"Ah, alright. Let me just go back and - oh hey, a pop-up just appeared, asking if I want to change to Arcade Mode. This your doing?"_

...

What the hell?

The game _knows_?

This is creeping me out.

Is there some sort of intelligence driving all of this behind the scenes?

"Yep," I lie again, managing to sound indifferent. "Click on yes, man."

_"Okay, done."_

"Awesome."

To our surprise, a new voice, the distinctive one of Mio Sakamoto, a renowned Strike Witch, blares out from our respective radios. At the same time, upbeat, pop battle music more fitting to Bayonetta than to War Thunder begins to play from my headphones, and I think, from Kebab Eater's own sound system, too.

_"To the Dornier and the Messerschmitt: this is Major Sakamoto of the 501st Joint Fighter Wing. Turn around now - you are heading straight for a large-type Neuroi."_

_"Wow,"_ Kebab Eater says, mildly impressed, _"That's some nice roleplaying."_

"Naw, man," I reply, "They're AI. Come on, my nigga, let's bounce that Neuroi!"

_"Hell yeah, muh nigga! Wait, they're AI?"_

"Yeah, nigga. Don't ask me, but they're not player characters."

_"Awright then, nigga, I won't pry no further; let's do this!"_

Our demeanor having changed from calm to excited and battle-hungry in a fraction of a second, with I myself having forgotten all about my Slenderman turret gunners and the behind-the-scenes intelligence at the prospect of action due to my dismissive optimism, we flick down our elevators and enter a forty to forty-five degree dive straight towards the Neuroi, which is just five or so kilometers away from us, flying at an altitude two thousand meters less than our own, which is about five thousand, five hundred. The risk of overspeed crashing be damned, we're playing in Arcade Mode; it is impossible with our flight models! And so we push our war machines to their very limits: our engines roar into furious, fiery life as we push our throttle power beyond 100% and activate engine injection, creating a significant amount of extra horsepower for us to work with.

The view at the fore of our aircraft shifts from the horizon to the waters of the Strait below us as we begin our attack.

_"You madmen! Turn back now, or you'll die! This is an order!"_ admonishes Minna, assuming that we're of lower rank than her (and she's probably correct, though I don't know Kebab Eater's level yet), over the radio as we exchange our high altitude for speed, violating a few clouds in our rapid descent; my companion's Bf 109 of the F-4 variant, is now at quite some distance ahead of my plane, since it is lighter and more able to gain more speed than my heavy own.

_"No, we're Kampfgeschwader five-oh-eight! And you need help!"_, corrects Kebab Eater, much to my pleasant surprise.

"We were born for this!", I add, before yelling out what I hope to be is an inspiring (though plagiarized) warcry: "For those we cherish, we die in glory!"

_"Goddamn, I'm going so fast! My, head, is like, following the vibrations of my cockpit, mate!"_, exclaims my companion as we both punch through a small, darkened cloud.

"I know, right?!" I agree, "This is some extreme shit we're doing!"

_"Damn you!" _radios Gertrud as she and the rest of her flight pick up the pace to get to the Neuroi before we can get killed by it.

_Now_ the pop music is fitting.

Allow me to describe the Neuroi:

It is shaped like a missile, much like the V-2 Rocket Neuroi whom I killstole from Lynette (Sorry) yesterday and probably ruining her self-esteem for the next few episodes. However, it's much bigger than what we last fought, perhaps twice as large. Four gargantuan aerodynamic fins protrude towards its rear, and its defining feature are three thick beams, each terminating into boxy ends, that constantly rotate clockwise, situated towards the fore of the craft, before its nose. It also emits a greater aura of dread as its body is covered in more glowing red weapon-tiles than the previous Neuroi intruder. It looks like it can fire off and sustain multiple death-rays at a time; and it only takes a single hit from one of those to down either my or Kebab Eater's aircraft.

And we are diving towards it, with the intent to murder, careless of danger.

But what do we care, eh? We can respawn; no permanent harm, save some minor psychological damage, can befall us! And to underline our utter disregard for death, the pop music kicks up a notch!

4,800; 4,400; 3,900 meters - the gap between us and our gargantuan foe closes as we lose altitude and gain more velocity. Kebab Eater and I are well over 600km/h in speed as of the moment, while the Witches lag well behind us at 1.7km and counting as they, in what I regard as utter foolishness, have not climbed to gain an altitude advantage over the Neuroi and thus have nothing to exchange for speed. My companion and I, meanwhile, have sacrificed a great deal of air to get to the sonic levels of speed we're traveling at the moment.

I don't know about him, but with how fast we're going, I feel like I'm going to throw up.

Thankfully, my resistance against the urge to retch is strong.

Two kilometers away from the dragon we must slay to protect the kingdom and save the princess, my fellow knight expresses his awe at the size of our foe.

_"Churchill's balls, that's fuckin' huge, mate!"_

And indeed, it is. It's perhaps half again as big as a B-24 Liberator.

"Damn right, nigga, and we're taking it down!"

_"I'm with you, nigga!"_, he assures me.

And so, like two brave, if not wholly, utterly and undeniably retarded and suicidal warriors atop their mighty, noble steeds, we charge against our own version of the evil, evil dragon, whose heart we must shatter in order to kill it. 1.6km, 1.4km, 1.2km, 900 meters - as we near it, the pop music blasts into its climax, my heart hastens its already rapid pace and Kebab Eater, being ahead of me in his more agile, single-engine fighter plane, gets the honor of firing off the first shots against the hated foe's side. I can imagine him squeezing the buttons on his joystick as he unleashes the wrath of his machine guns and cannons - wrath that is not sufficient to make any significant marks save a few small impact craters in the short second before, in a fusillade of death-rays, his war machine's right wing is utterly blasted, incinerated in its entirety out of existence and his plane spirals out of control.

_"OH SHIT, I'M HIT!"_ he exclaims in clear, unhidden terror, probably getting sick from all the rotations his doomed aircraft is doing. _"I'M GONNA DIE! I'M GONNA-"_ then his plane slams right into the Neuroi in a fireball that would make Michael Bay proud, gouging out an impact crater worthy of respect, though the ever-important core still remains hidden.

Towards the bottom right, I see a line of text that is so plain, an understatement to the glorious death he just died:

_[KG508] Kebab_Eater shot down by Large-Type Neuroi_

"I'll avenge you, man!" I yell, feigning fiery hatred and sheer anger, when in truth, I am grinning and reveling in the rush of adrenaline.

_"No you won't!"_ says Mio, who is still 1.5 kilometers away, with genuine concern in her voice. _"Turn back now, you might still live!"_

Ha!

No.

"Never!" is my response as I perform a magnificent snap-roll, making my entire plane rotate clockwise whilst I simultaneously fire all eight of my guns at the Brobdingnagian target just over half a kilometer away as it fires a full fusillade of death-rays just for me. My sudden maneuver makes it so that I evade all four crimson beams of total annihilation, preserving my war machine from destruction, though not so much my stomach; the roll makes me want to retch, as I am fully immersed in the Rift and my brain struggles to handle both realities at once while my eyes are being spun around, but I continue to admirably resist the urge to vomit. My bullets and cannon shells gouge out much material out of the Neuroi's side, but it is just insignificant damage to it. Unless we destroy its core, this thing will continue to operate.

_Hit: +950 lions +260 xp_

500 meters, 450 meters, 400 meters, 350 meters! I chew through the space between us quickly and I pull up to unintentionally dodge another fusillade of death-rays which passes under my aircraft. I then press E and D at the same time to kick the rudder and force the plane to bank right and pitch its nose down, before I use the mouse to maneuver my nose so that I shoot up a trail of white bullet holes and impact craters along the Neuroi ship's side, before leveling my aircraft and unintentionally dodging yet another barrage of death-rays, but only narrowly this time: my left wing's surface is grazed and the unexplained, anime-esque explosion that follows and shakes my whole vision forces my plane to bank left...

_Hit: +1890 lions +350 xp_

... which I am grateful for, as I press S to make a tight turn to roughly align myself with the gargantuan enemy, speeds somewhat matching, and use the mouse to pitch my nose up, lifting up my craft above the foe's own, before I rapidly press the spacebar, panicked, desperate and unwilling to die yet hungry for the glory of its death, to open the bomb bay in the belly of my heavy fighter and release all of my eight fifty-kilogram bombs in quick succession. Two of them, much to my surprise, actually hit: one disintegrates a large chunk of the left rear fin, while the other bores a deep, two-meter wide crater into the Neuroi's body, towards the rear, though sadly not exposing the core, probably because it's not there.

_Hit: +2590 lions + 500 xp_

Unfortunately for me, the next fusillade of four death-rays, although missing me entirely, detonates the very last fifty-kilogram bomb that I have dropped, just a meter or so away from the belly of my craft. The resulting explosion has a profound and devastating effect on my poor, poor Dornier, underlined and accentuated by the sudden and violent lurch it makes the aircraft do. I look up and towards the left of my vision to see the graphical display that monitors the health of my aircraft's subsystems, and my grimace turns from that of excitement from the extremity of being insane, to that of worry - my fuselage is black, and so are my elevators and right wing. My right engine is red and slowly withering into black. My left wing and ailerons are pink; the upper body of my plane is red. The rest of my craft's parts are white, but that gives me no relief.

Meanwhile, my two faceless gunners further vandalize the surface of the already crater-riddled Neuroi with their 13mm machine guns. Though their courage and defiance against the foe are admirable, they aren't really doing much. The aeroplane has also become combat ineffective with the damages it has sustained, and so we cannot engage any further.

No, let me restate that: not only are we combat ineffective, we are also doomed, hopeless, about to get fucked.

... but there is hope yet!

Black does not always mean non-functionality! There is still a chance that my control surfaces are working! If there isn't, then why is the upbeat pop music still blaring?

I press A to roll my now cornered Dornier leftwards, making it fly sideways, but when I press S to bring the elevators up and escape my enemy by entering a desperate dive or at least a tight turn leading away from the foe, my plane does not respond.

Oh boy.

"Shit." is the only thing I can say to this, before the Neuroi, most likely angered by my humiliating actions, sends a full eight crimson death-beams, each as thick as a man is wide, to skewer my plane.

_"NO!"_ I hear both Minna and Yoshika yell out in chorus, as my entire vision is engulfed in red and the dominant sounds in my cockpit are that of explosions and man-made machine faltering violently against the brutal, overpowering strength of an alien one. I am not even given a chance to have my life flash before my eyes as red turns to white and I am taken away from the mortal world and into heaven...

_[KG508] MagosMechanicus shot down by Large-type Neuroi_

... but then the camera switches to third-person and pans out from the fiery death-explosion of my Dornier, the music coming to an abrupt halt and the alien craft continuing onwards, toward the witches, without a care, meanwhile what little black debris is left from the destruction of my plane is flung away and heading for the Strait below.

And then I resume my breathing, and begin to laugh maniacally. My laughter reverberates in the lonely room that I inhabit, though I don't notice it through my headphones.

That was, indeed, some _extreme_ shit Kebab Eater and I both just did. I cannot even describe to you how insane it is, doing all of that in first-person; every movement you do, every rattle or lurch your aircraft makes, you _feel_ it. With the enemy in front of you, you are tricked very well into feeling a lot of dread. Through mechanics unexplained, my character - that is, my _other real body _- makes the same movements I do in real life, following my sways and reflexive winces but keeping his hands on the controls. Through the Rift, I can experience the brutal carnage of aerial battle against an overpowering foe almost in its whole, bloody violence. The only thing missing, is pain.

Which, of course, I am very much grateful for.

On the lower right, I see a line of text that makes me grin: _[KG508] Kebab_Eater (Beaufighter Mk. VIc) is ready for battle_

Oh boy. He just respawned, and in a very respectable heavy fighter, too! Armed with four fully-automatic 20mm Hispano cannons, and possessed of very responsive flight controls, the Beaufighter is often the most numerous, and most hated object in any online battle where the British faction is involved. Many players have met their doom at the end of the baleful gazes of many a Beaufighter's four golf ball-sized gun muzzles, and most of them leave the fight stewing in anger, probably going off to complain on the forums that the plane is overpowered or undertiered, when any single-engine fighter can easily beat the damn thing as it, being a large, twin-engined aircraft, loses energy quickly and gains it slowly, and thus moderately easy to beat in a speed-draining dogfight. Force a Beaufighter to pitch its nose upwards for a couple of seconds, and you have already cornered it...

... well, that's my theory.

I have no idea how it's going to fare against the gargantuan beast that heralds the death of mankind which the camera is now following, though - following, as it is the object that had just killed me. This only lasts for a few seconds, though, before the invisible camera, in order to preserve the game's balance (spectating an enemy while the battle still rages is unfair, of course) of which there is none of since this isn't a bloody game, teleports right in between Minna's legs (as she is a friendly unit) to give me a clear and unadulterated view of her dignity. The utter _detail_ that grabs the full attention of my eyes is such that I am _taken aback_.

"Wow!" I exclaim, rather amused at the perversion of the game. Normally, the camera goes to give me a view of a friendly player's side, but right in between a Witch's legs? _Wow_. My vision is then overlayed with the screen that meets a player when one has died in an Arcade Battle, where the chatbox and a selection of the aircraft I can still fly is presented before me. There are glaring differences from the norm, though: my Dornier, even though destroyed, is not crossed out; I can still select it and go for another sortie if I so desire it; and the listed aircraft I can play as is not limited to the nationality of the plane I first selected: instead of only my five German planes, I have the liberty to choose any of the aircraft that I own.

Neat.

However, since my view is near Minna and the other Witches (they are just over a kilometer of the Neuroi as of now), I can eavesdrop on their chatter, and what I hear worries me.

First, it is the clearly agitated voice of the redheaded Commander that sounds off:

_"Lieutenant Barkhorn, fall back into formation immediately!"_

And then it is the voice of a concerned Yoshika, the only likable Mary Sue in existence:

_"Barkhorn-san!"_

And then I hear the frustrated cry of the Karslander being referred to, hurt clearly evident in her trembling voice:

_"They didn't need to die! They didn't need to die! Those idiots! Those goddamned idiots!"_

Though my view of the world is darkened due to the somewhat-transparent screen before me, I can clearly see Barkhorn just grabbing a boost of speed out of nowhere to quickly close the distance between her and the Neuroi that just slaughtered us, in an apparently suicidal charge fueled by volatile, fiery emotion caused by witnessing the death of at least four 'Karlslanders'. I hear the stern but ultimately ineffective admonishment of Major Sakamoto and Perrine's terrified _"Lieutenant! O-obey the Major! Do you have a death wish?!"_

_'Well...'_, I think to myself as I consider the consequences of my and my companion's reckless actions.

_'... shit.'_, I conclude gracefully.

Looks like our mad charge just push Gertrud off the edge of the metaphorical cliff.

During the events of this particular episode of the first season of Strike Witches that Kebab Eater and I are utterly butchering, Gertrud is emotionally unstable and downright depressed due to her constant thinking of the state of her Neuroi-besieged homeland, Karlsland (the in-universe Empire of Germany), and her failure to protect her little sister from getting injured by... well, I forgot. Did some debris from a nearby falling building hit her, or something? I can't seem to recall.

Anyway, we just made her berserk.

I'm sure she'll be fine, though. Based on Gerhard Barkhorn, a World War II flying ace with over two hundred aerial victories to his name, I'm sure that Gertrud won't do anything stupid...

...

... this time around, that is, what with me and Kebab mucking about and ruining canon.

I quickly select the Me 410 A1, a German twin-engined bomber-killer with a terrifying 50mm gun mounted under its nose, and click on the red bar on the lower-right that says "To Battle!" I see a countdown timer towards the top-right of the screen before me: "Respawn in 5... 4... 3...". Meanwhile, Gertrud Barkhorn gets within half a kilometer of today's monster and begins to fire her dual-wielded machine guns, and Lynette, with her anti-tank rifle, begins to engage from much further away. Their fellow Witches race together, forming unexplained though aesthetically pleasing white smoke trails in their wakes as they go to save the twin-tailed Karlslander from death by stupidity.

Of course, the Neuroi is sending fusillades of death-rays at them like it did to me and Kebab Eater, but the Witches' greater nimbleness and agility and far smaller size than any aircraft of this era allow them weave in between and dodge the beams of pure destructive energy. At other times, however, they opt to stay still, activating their glowing, magical shields to disperse the beams out and away from their fragile bodies.

_Respawn in 2... 1..._

Overpowered gits, the lot of them.

However, they are adorable, tolerable gits who grope each other, and so I'm completely fine with them!

Oh, and the pop music's back, too.

Thoughtful of the game!

_[KG508] MagosMechanicus (Me 410 A-1/U4) is now ready for battle_

I take my hands off my keyboard and mouse to readjust the Rift (which had slipped to an uncomfortable position due to the sweat on my face) as the unfamiliar, gauge-riddled cockpit of the 410 fills up my view and the roar of its engines fills my ears. I spawn a kilometer and a half away from the Neuroi, in a fat cumulus cloud where my sudden materialization is safe from the eyes of the Witches. Though I am appreciative of the game's efforts to keep on my thin veil of normalcy to the Witches, I don't think it's going to last long when I hear a familiar voice sound through my speakers.

_"Oh, you're back, mate!"_ comes the excited cry of Kebab Eater.

"Where are you at?" I immediately ask, and his reply is rather cliché, though I don't mind:

_"Look up!"_

Oh, and I do. In my glass cockpit weaved over by many curved metal bars, I look up, and I see him, two kilometers directly above me, racing towards the earth like a desperate comet possessed by some sort of angry demon from Hell. He, in his twin-engined chariot of war whose round nose and slanted horizontal stabilizers make it look like some sort of dull, flying fish, falls from the sky like lightning. He is going so_ fast_, and that is all I can describe.

My great approval of this manifests on my face in the form of a laugh and a grin.

"Christ! What altitude did you spawn from?!"

_"Eight thousand meters! Dived immediately,"_ he says, _"This is fuckin' insane!"_

"No shit!"

His speeding silhouette followed by a blue line of text that displays his name and the distance between us, it is not hard for my eyes to track him even as he zooms right through the very air immediately before my aircraft, our collision prevented only through the grace of Lady Luck. When the huge, blurred form of his Beaufighter takes up the entirety of the view of the left-hand side of the canopy for but the swiftest of moments, I almost jump out of my seat! He doesn't even apologize as he continues his incredible, unwise and utterly maniacal journey to intercept the Neuroi. I call him out on this.

"You motherfuck!" I yell in fond, brotherly anger. "You nearly gave me a heart attack!"

_"Yours will be nothing compared to the one I'm about to give to myself, mate!"_

I make my plane bank left slightly so I can get a better view of the action westwards of my plane, trusting my British teammate to take care of things. I see the unexplained, white smoke trails that curve around the space of our battered foe and tell of the Witches' flight paths, and I also see their labeled, tiny silhouettes dodging and withstanding the death-rays with their superior agility and bright flashes of their magical shields.

It is like watching a rotting piece of ugly, black meat defending itself against a swarm of flies with little laser beams above an ocean that dwarfs them utterly.

Unlike Kebab Eater and I, the Witches are actually holding their ground against the damn thing. Even if they are armed with only machine guns and weapons whose calibers do not exceed 13mm, the accuracy they get from having the nimbleness to get to point-blank range while not slamming into the Neuroi like conventional combat aircraft allows them to concentrate their firepower into one spot and bore deep holes into their bodies, potentially revealing the core.

Which, of course, they do, with the help of Major Sakamoto's magical right eye, as is paraded around by the game with a line of text at the bottom-right corner of my vision:

_Large-Type Neuroi critically damaged by 1stLt. Gertrud Barkhorn (Striker Unit Bf109 G-6)  
_

And, due to my and Kebab Eater's intervention and mucking up of events, Gertrud didn't have to get knocked out of the sky this late into the episode!

I flick my eyes back to look at the battle between the swarming flies and the rotting meat, and I see Kebab Eater's Beaufighter still rushing towards the Neuroi even when it is about to be killed. That magnificent son of a bitch, he's going to steal their kill!

I root for him.

"Go, Kebab! Go!" I encourage. "Come on, my nigga, you can steal their kill yet!"

_"I'm doing my best!"_ he yells in a wonderful adrenaline high. _"I'm gonna do it!"_

Oh, and I follow him with my eyes; I see him smoothly transitioning from a deep-angled dive to a shallow one, his speed still in excess of 800km/h, I estimate, as he goes through the final two kilometers of empty air between him and his most unfortunate target. Like a glorious patriotic eagle radiating the spirit of a belligerent United States of America, he flies, torturing his poor Beaufighter and perhaps his own faceless gunner that I think he hasn't met yet, towards victory.

It is akin to watching the final moments of a basketball game, where there is only one second left on the clock, the teams' scores are tied, and the one with the ball is too far away and there is no time to get close for an accurate shot, and so he desperately shoots from the other half of the court, and now I am watching the ball as it flies.

My grin stretches, as the unfitting pop music adds beat after beat to build up for the eventual climax.

A thousand and two hundred meters.

"You can do it!"

Eight hundred meters.

_"I can do it!"_

Four hundred meters.

"You're too fast, pull up!"

One hundred and fifty meters.

_"AaaaAAAaaaAAaaAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH-!"_

The music reaches its climax.

...

And then, in a bright flash of utterly blinding, sparkling glory, and also an enormous explosion with more white of the Neuroi's death than the orange of fire and the black of smoke, his twin-engined, seventeen thousand-pound aeroplane slams right into where the fist-sized, crystal core of the foe is at. I am utterly shocked with the feeling of awe and seconds later, I hear the muffled and delayed sound of the moment when utter perfection was achieved in the form of instant death.

To underscore the sheer awe of our triumph, the pop music smoothly drops out and transitions into an orchestral song. The sweet sound of violins and large wind instruments whose names I don't know makes my ears knock on heaven's door in myriad ways. Even the sun itself makes an effort to make the vista more pleasing to the senses, by shining its golden rays at my friend and the enemy's place of death.

Hell, even a rainbow comes up to frame the place where my friend just drank from the cup of glory, fulfilling his duty to the Queen.

"Wow...", motions my mouth, the word voiceless, as the white, harmless cloud, easily tens of scores large in measurement, of alien death-powder engulfs the tiny, flying forms of Minna, Mio, Gertrud, Perrine, Yoshika and Lynette.

And, truly indifferent and coldly unfeeling, the game does not count collisions, even this amazing one, as a kill. Thus,

_[KG508] Kebab_Eater has crashed  
Large-type Neuroi has crashed_

But that gives my spirits no reason to be put down!

That was utterly amazing, what I just saw.

Oh, God...

... dear Lord.

I shake my head in real life and make a sound akin to Ellis' motorboat when he injects himself with adrenaline.

Allow me to remind you that I just witnessed an aeroplane intentionally slamming into an alien ship, with the full intent to kill, with graphical and audio quality identical to that of real life's.

Man,

I wonder what's going on in the Witches' minds right now. Surely, they must have seen Kebab's plane come in and smash right into the Neuroi -

- wait, what's that?

There, exiting the cloud of crystallizing Neuroi death-powder: a smoking and utterly ruined Beaufighter that lacks a right wing, headed straight for the sand of the coast of Britain which we've inched towards during our engagement with today's monster! That son of a bitch actually survived - I hope!

Wait - yes: his radio is clearly damaged, but I can still make out Kebab Eater's words that announce his victory:

_"GLORY TO BRITAAAAAAAAIIIN!"_

He says this, right before I see the two tiniest of specks eject from his dying craft and pop out parachutes.

Unadulterated joy finds a place in my heart and I feel myself lifting up, bodily and spiritually like having witnessed the Second Coming, and I then begin to clap my hands rapidly, my face contorted in an expression of idiotic happiness.

"Glory, you motherfucker!" I say, laughing out loud. "You did it! You fucking did it!" Deprived of a radio, he duly cannot respond to me as he sinks gently towards green, grassy land.

Unfortunately,

_"You fucking madmen!"_ comes the fiery voice of an angry Minna-Dietlinde Wilcke, static blending into her words (though not too much) through my radio's speakers. Even though she is some kilometers away from me, I feel her piercing glare upon my happy, happy face; she and the other witches are clearly visible now that the cloud of death-power has its now crystalline contents dissolving in the air. Hell, I feel Sakamoto's angry glare, too. Is this magic?

In the distance, I see Yoshika, Perrine and Lynette's labeled silhouettes going to retrieve my friend and his crewman.

"No," I correct her immediately, pausing my dumb grinning and incredulous head-shaking, and mildly surprising myself. "We are Kampfgeschwader five-oh-eight, and you?"

I pause for dramatic effect.

"... you needed our help."

* * *

**A/N: **Well, here you go. Longest chapter to date at 8,600 words. To be honest, I am quite concerned with the quality of this one. Do send feedback.


	5. The Plot Advances

**March 03, 1944  
The ****Ardennes, Belgium**  
**1520 Hours**  
**Red Orchestra: Darkest Hour '44-'45/War Thunder v1.35  
Gamemode: Team Deathmatch/Adventure  
Status: Enjoyable Stalemate/Terrifying Sortie  
**

* * *

**Player list:**

**American Team****:**  
-[BeL] Kr4ut  
-[BeL] Jerkke  
-[BeL] R4pid  
-[BeL] Ghost  
-Iggyboy  
-Zur  
-[BeL] Grape  
-SPEAR_OF_OLYMPUS  
-kelbor-hal  
-Patton

**German Team:  
**-[GGW] k1ller  
-Yasha  
-[FBI] ILLUMINATE  
-Def  
-Dakkanator  
-Corvy  
-[FBI] OminG  
-[FBI] N3r0th  
-ponos  
-HappyCat  
**  
****Kampfgeschwader 508:**  
-[KG508] MagosMechanicus (IL-2 Sturmovik)  
-[KG508] Kebab_Eater (IL-2 Sturmovik)

**Honorless Quitters:  
**-Booda

* * *

It is raining. In this custom map, the sky is covered with a thick sheet of dark clouds that hide the sun and cast gloomy shadows upon everything under them. Two armed forces, one American and the other German, their equipment duly appropriate to the era with Garands, MG-42's and Lugers, fight over a small patch of land, and for the sole reason of bloody, violent fun. These men, these players, are hardened warriors, with deadly aim and insane courage, never hesitating to perform the most inspiring and valiant actions in combat. Such is their war-induced heartlessness that even as lightning strikes near one of their own and kills him in but the quickest and brightest of flashes and the loudest of booms, they ignore his crumpling corpse, for death does not shake them anymore.

Then again, it never shook them at all to begin with.

Loud footsteps of boot upon muddy soil can be heard, as six men from the American team sprint toward the site of battle: a long and narrow dirt road the divides this section of the forest into two, either of which is claimed by either side. It is not far away, and the constant roars of autoguns and the intermittent barks of weapons with less rates of fire are audible, but there is no visual contact with the battleground as the surrounding flora is simply too dense. The six-man squad (which cannot be called a squad, more like a gaggle of players whose destinations merely coincide) jump over fallen logs, brush away the wet leaves of bushes and weave in between trees before, finally, the muzzle flashes, the uniforms, the broken weapons and the scattered corpses are now in their view, in their full, photorealistic glory within the Oculus Rift.

Of course, if one can see another, then surely one can also be seen, and so, to protect themselves in this brutal tactical shooter, each of the members of the six-man 'squad' composed of Kr4ut, Jerkke, R4pid, Ghost, Iggyboy and Zur goes to torture their poor keyboard with powerful finger-falls and claim a piece of thick, wooden trunk as their own, to serve as a shield from the constant hail of bullets coming in from the other side. Kr4ut leans out of cover to see Grape, an American machine gunner and teammate, shot right in the head with a burst of fire from an opposing gunner. Blood sprays out forth from his shattered, now helmetless head and stains the hungry earth, which begins to drink the mixture of spilled, crimson life and rainwater.

Eyes widened in real life at having witnesed death with such graphical quality, Kr4ut instinctively and immediately returns to cover, utilizing in full effectiveness his microphone to say loudly as to get his message clear through the volume of the rain, "Game's more terrifying with the Rift on!" Before leaning out of cover to aim and fire, and getting shot up himself, falling to the ground chest-up with a dull thud and then immediately pooling dark blood.

"I know right?!" comes the reply of Jerkke, who ignores the notification at the corner of the screen informing him of Kr4ut's death. "I might actually suffer PTSD from this!" And indeed he might, as a German Stielhandgranate lands right on his feet and prompts him and run out of his comfortable tree trunk to seek other cover and to get away from the explosive. Of course, this is exactly what k1ller, a player on the German team armed with an MP40, wanted, as he, with his virtual eye already looking down the sights of his weapon, cuts Jerkke down with a ten-round burst of fire.

Of course, emboldened by his first kill in a few deaths, k1ller immediately leaves the ditch right before the road that he's using for cover along with another player, named Booda, who's been AFK since he announced his want for food. His transition from prone to sprint is flawless, and with only minimal effort: C, SHIFT, W. His character's athletic skill is unquestionable as his boots are but a blurred flurry of rotating black shapes as he runs towards the Allies' side of the map. His vision impaired by the terrible weather, bobbing screen, and the somewhat limited color palette as the entire map was naught but dark, depressing forest, he could not even see R4pid as his trusty Garand dispatched him with but a single shot to the heart.

But k1ller took joy even after death, for the grenade that he lobbed at Jerkke had exploded, and took out both R4pid and Iggyboy; the former has lost an arm, while the latter has lost both of his legs. Ghost and Zur, meanwhile, are moderately injured, but in true video-gaming fashion, like crack soldiers from an elite, self-righteous and utterly brainwashed Nazi battle unit, they ignore their deep cuts from the shrapnel and burns from the heat of the explosion, and proceed to fight on as if nothing terrible has happened, as if they aren't in pain, as if blood hasn't been drawn and as if they don't care about the moving silhouettes in the distance, weaving in between trees, that are the enemy's reinforcements.

Well, that is because they don't care, at all. These men, these players - they fight for the sake of fighting, and kill for the sake of killing, for they find great joy in ending each others' lives. They enjoy the sprays of blood, the game's rewarding notifications of their kills, and the sheer immersion that the Oculus Rift provides in this nonsensical ten-versus-ten deathmatch, where friend kills friend and ally destroys ally, and everyone pretends that mankind is not under terrible threat from the Neuroi. Never has Red Orchestra looked as good as it is right now in front of their eyes, or as realistic.

The textures, lighting and shadows make the trees of the forest look duly organic, the muddy ground look appropriately dirty; and each individual raindrop from the sky is composed of more than trillions of polygons, even though they haven't noticed it. Their characters make the same reflexive winces and grimaces as they do in real life, and even a whole new, unheard of interactivity is unlocked, discovered by one player in the German team named Yasha, who grabbed a beetle from the ground with the 'use' key and threw it at a teammate, all in good fun.

Of course, having been provoked, ponos brought up the sight to his eyes, swiftly and decisively with the right mouse button, and shot a powerful piece of hot, flying metal right through Yasha's skull, all in good fun. This happened at the beginning of the round, where players from both sides were still taking time admire the new graphics that would disappear when they took off the Rift and stared at their monitor. Yasha was hit in the left eyebrow, and bone could not put up even a noteworthy resistance as calcium was utterly broken and lead proceeded to tear apart the brain.

Dead even before he hit the ground, Yasha, after he had respawned, and the other players of the German team, gathered around his corpse and took note of the updated damage model. Blood-soaked, his right eye was gouged out and still connected to his head only by the optic nerve. His other eye, lifeless, its pupil dilated fully now, was facing the other way. Blood streamed out forth from his nostrils and the sides of his mouth and telltale, pink, chunky matter that's been torn apart can be seen through the hole punched through by ponos' Karabiner 98.

k1ller took note of the fact that the pooling blood was dynamic, 3D even, as he crouched down and attempted to bash Yasha's corpse with the butt of his weapon, only to hit the blood before his head and not the body part itself, to stain the rear of his weapon red and splatter the blood around the immediate soil. Though all were indeed impressed by the new graphical quality, they reminded each other that they still had a game to play. Thus, ignoring Yasha's first life's corpse, whose warmth was rapidly escaping, they bolted from their spawn point and met the American team at the dividing dirt road.

There, twenty minutes ago, twenty men met and began to kill each other without so much as saying a word to the opposing side. Calls for help, suppressing fire, grenade throws, death cries and random insults were the only things uttered. A storm of bullets erupted quickly and the quiet, if not terribly depressing peace of the gloomy, shadowed forest being rained upon by the dark clouds above was shattered with nary a single damn being given about it. In just a few seconds, k1ller killed Grape, and Yasha killed Jerkke, while Zur, by complete accident, dispatched a freshly-killed and newly-respawned Booda on the other side of the map. ILLUMINATE, ever the vainglorious hound, pulled out the pin of his grenade and ran to the American team like a man possessed without throwing the explosive. Preoccupied with other targets, SPEAR_OF_OLYMPUS, Patton, and kelbor-hal could not see him until it was too late; and then all four of them exploded in an explosion of red and orange, like ripe melons bursting in a flash of fire.

The hole in the American Team's defense caused by the as-of-the-moment late ILLUMINATE emboldens three players of the German side who are new to the game, but show potential for greatness as they never seem to leave each others' sides and their teamwork, while shoddy, is absolute, with covering fire for each other and suppressive grenade throws at the appropriate times. These three are Def, Dakkanator and Corvy, and during that time, they ceased their idling about (they couldn't see the enemy properly through the gloom of the forest) behind their protective trees and rushed forwards, sprinting across the dirt road and sought to engage Ghost and Iggyboy in close combat. And they did.

_"HAAAAAAA!__"_ came the fierce roar of Def, drawing the attention of Iggyboy, as he smacked the poor guy's face with the butt of his weapon, breaking the jaw and shaking about the brain. Unfortunately for him, the Thompson-toting Ghost had just finished reloading and so proceeded to cave in his face with a burst of deadly fire. Dakkanator, armed with a Karabiner 98 rifle affixed with a bayonet at the end, shot Ghost in arm during his mad dash as soon as Def's lifeless carcass dropped on the dirt, throwing off his aim and making him panic, unintentionally allowing himself to be speared through the chest by cold, cold steel.

However, Dakkanator, having ignored the injured Iggyboy to his right, paid the ultimate price as the suffering American serviceman pulled out a Colt M1911 and, in a rather loud bang, wrenched a bullet of .45 caliber in between his ribs, piercing through his lungs and tearing apart the aorta of the heart. The bullet, going through thick, momentum-absorbing flesh, finally stopped and lodged itself in Dakkanator's right lung. His character visibly grimaced and fell onto the mud face-first, before his soul was finally pried away from his mortal body when Iggyboy delivered a second, decisive shot right into his eye.

Iggyboy, in a split-second later, was killed himself when Corvy, armed like Dakkanator, slit the poor guy's throat with his bayonet. Iggyboy's character's eyes widened, clutched his new, profusely bleeding wound and gurgled dumbly, before he died. Corvy himself was killed in the next short second when a misfired Panzerfaust fist from OminG, who was charging towards the American side along with the similarly-armed N3r0th, ponos and HappyCat, slammed right into his back and obliterated his torso. These four brave Players (are there any cowardly ones?), armed with tank-busting weapons, fired volley after volley of deadly HEAT rounds at the respawning American team, whose morale suffered more than their body parts; and even so, the morale shock wasn't much. The trunks of trees thick and thin alike were blasted open and the new physics engine brought about by the Rift made even the tallest ones, whom the players thought of as only static objects, fall down, branches breaking in loud cracks, and land upon the muddy soil with even louder, appropriate crashing sounds; and craters were gouged out from the ground with their highly-explosive firepower.

Of course, unperturbed by the rampant destruction around, a vengeful American-team gaggle composed of kelbor-hal, Patton, and SPEAR_OF_OLYMPUS easily dispatched of OminG and his panzerfaust-toting troupe. Their corpses fell onto the ground unceremoniously with dull thuds, and their clothes began to stain red, and the ground beneath them as well, as blood escaped them rapidly. Then there was a heavy, uneasy silence. With most of the belligerents eliminated, the sounds of fighting stopped abruptly, as if the battle never happened; the rain poured on (and still does), uncaring, and only the intermittent lightning strikes and the footfalls of the newly-respawned Players served to break it.

And then they all met at the central road for the second time and killed each other again, but in different ways. Through the mechanics of the game, they marched forth with new, unbroken bodies and weapons, which they use to rekindle the carnage of an unexplained conflict which, in this Universe of magic and pantslessness, is waged between two warhosts that should be allies. Muzzle flashes, shouts for help, random insults and battle cries could be heard over the din of battle, before fading away; one by one, do they die.

And then, after respawning anew, they met for the third time, and killed each other again.

And again,

And again.

And they have been doing this for over twenty minutes. Now their corpses and weapons that refuse to despawn litter the entire place. Fallen men with identical uniforms and faces lay there, lifeless; some just recently, others died earlier. The once-virgin land around has been raped by the hand of war, and trees have fallen, and the ground is scorched and marked by craters, the handiwork of various explosive weaponry. Blood is spattered everywhere, with the combatants often deeming the clean death of a foe as insufficient to their bloody fulfillment and proceeding to riddle fresh corpses with hot bullets. Often do they humiliate each other with sneaky backstabs, suicidal grenade runs, and winning over each other at melee-driving quick-time events, which everyone swears did not exist in Red Orchestra before the Rift, but welcome it anyway.

They welcome it because it's fun, and because it's brutal. Those with faster hands are rewarded with their knives sinking into the flesh of the enemy or their fists and fingers doing unspeakable acts of mutilation upon the foe; and one who particularly delights at such engagements is kelbor-hal, whose distinctive battle cry of _"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!"_ has been copied and uttered numerous times by respawning friend and foe alike. Blood for the Blood God indeed, as the slaughter continues, and as men kill other men, and for no reason other than it's fun.

And let me tell you: it's really, really fun.

_Booda has left the game._

And the battle indeed becomes even funner as a shadow, of intensity and casted darkness deeper than that of the sun-obscuring clouds above, covers the entire battleground. Whereas others might've looked up and ceased their struggle, the twenty fighting men keep of both teams keep on slaughtering each other like bloodthirsty berserkers - which they are, by the way. Only when SPEAR_OF_OLYMPUS actually lifts his chin up and yells out to both teams, _"Guys! Look up! What the hell is that?!"_ does the fighting stop, after a few more seconds of gunfire of course, and everyone beholds the gargantuan Large-type Neuroi hanging above them.

Whereas others might've viewed this development as a great misfortune, these men, insane and battle-hungry as they are, regard the new and mysterious object as a very welcome foe, or as kelbor-hal puts it, "More skulls for the skull throne!"

Jaws drop and sounds of amazement can be heard.

"Look at that thing! Lookit!"

"Is this the final boss?"

"Aliens! Aliens are attacking!"

"Find hard cover you faggots!"

"Everyone kill yourselves and respawn with rockets!"

"GRAB ITS SKULL FOR KHORNE!"

"What kind of whacky tobaccy were they smoking when they came up with this shi-"

Everyone shut right up when, right out of nowhere, a scarlet laser beam as wide as _two_ battle tanks sprouts out forth from the black, building-sized alien ship and utterly annihilates meter upon meter of soil and trees, and pulverizes Jerkke, kelbor-hal, Grape, Def and Dakkanator. To the poor, poor players, it would seem that the entire world is being shaken about by a magnitude-nine Earthquake. Almost everyone makes screams of feigned terror or mad cackles of sheer enjoyment as the earth and the sky appear to be struggling for each others' rightful place, before it stops abruptly, and everyone who still lives goes to stare at the massive, meters-deep gorge cut out by the alien laser that bisects the forest more completely than the central dirt road.

"Hohohoholiiee _shit_~!"

"Guys? We're screwed."

And indeed, they are screwed, for the soft, white glow of the newly-formed gorge is but a poor warning for what happens next: it _explodes_, truly anime-esque in how it is delayed by seconds after the laser strike. The bright flash of white followed by a lingering cloud of dried-up dust from the once muddy Earth illuminates the map and erases nearly all the still-living players from existence in an instant. The miraculously lucky two survivors who're Iggyboy and ponos managed to avoid the worst of the explosion, but now find themselves being flung at a great velocity by the force of the blast, sending them smashing against the hard terrain and making bloody pulps of themselves.

And the Large-type Neuroi, whose size is comparable to that of three modest homes put together, mimics the shape of a Messerschmitt Me 163 Komet and flies at just a score of meters above the ground, seemingly pleased with its violent and heartless handiwork, makes a terrible, gurgling noise that, though utterly alien to us, seems to indicate happiness and joy. It's telling our Mother Earth, mockingly, of its great accomplishments today, including the destruction of the twenty human beings who were trying to kill each other. Then, through mechanics unknown, it defies gravity and begins to rise and gain altitude, so that it may go and ruin some other people's day and secure more footing for its kin as they continue to devour planet Earth.

But then it is suddenly assailed by a blasphemous amount of small-arms fire coming from the surface which it had just cleansed. Surprised at this, the Neuroi makes a sound of irritation as its invisible and all-seeing eye examines the smoking, ruined forest below, and twenty men are revealed to it, wearing the same faces of the ones it had just killed, all pointing their firing guns upon its belly, somehow having looked past their differences and are now working together. On its underside, the sleek, crystalline material it is made of is being chipped and chipped and cracked by the stern efforts of hot, flying lead. They fall in chunks and dissolve in the air, becoming luminescent and white, like falling snow.

**NNNNNNNNNRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRGGGGHHHH**, is the indescribable and terrifying noise that the Neuroi makes to announce its sheer hatred of both teams, whose tone of battle chatter is more excited and amused than terrified and shrinking. "Fire, fire, fire!" encourages Grape, who, on the smoking surface of the forest, fires his M2 Machine Gun at the great enemy above. OminG, ponos and N3r0th on the other side of the map ready their panzerfausts and bring the sights to their eyes; meanwhile, an MG-42-armed ILLUMINATE, who has watched Strike Witches, advises,

"I know this thing!" he says, "We gotta break open the-"

He cannot finish as the world is engulfed in the sound of roaring destruction and his vision is dominated by the color red, as if he's seeing a vision of Hell. The ground shakes once again, and in greater intensity this time. The Players who are not annihilated by the beam of scarlet death find themselves and their aim being shook about. Another deep depression is carved onto the surface of the already scarred Earth, crossing over the existing gorge and making an 'X'. The narrow dirt road goes through at the center, and from above, the formation looks like an asterisk. Once again, in true anime fashion, there is a delay of a few seconds before a large and unexplained explosion bursts right out of nowhere. Since the players aren't bunched up at the center like they were last time, only half of them are killed.

"Like I said," ILLUMINATE continues, still composed. "We have to uncover the core and shoot it up so we can kill it!"

"Where's the core supposed to be?" asks N3r0th as he, along with OminG and ponos, fires his panzerfaust at the craft above, each fist scoring a direct hit upon the heavy, gigantic enemy and gouging out large chunks of Neuroi material. Rising up from the other side of the map just a few seconds later are the lit Bazooka warheads of Zur, Patton and Ghost. They hit home and detonate upon the belly of the beast, having an effect similar to that of the panzerfausts.

"Just keep shooting! We'll see it eventually!"

"How long will that take?" asks Yasha. "It's regenerating!"

And indeed, it is. Though it does so slowly, the crystalline material of the Neuroi is magically replicating itself to fill the holes bored into it by the Players, though the rate of damage only slightly exceeds the rate of repair, even with the players' heavy, explosive weapons.

"JUST KEEP ON FIGHTING, BROTHERS" comes the synthesized, robotic voice of kelbor-hal, who is clearly enjoying his little roleplay act. "BRING GLORY TO THE GOD OF BLOOD BY SLAYING THIS WORTHY FOE!"

**NNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRRGHHH!**, exclaims the suffering Neuroi to this, eliciting an "Oh my God!" from Corvy and a "Shit!" from Patton, before, yet again, a gargantuan laser is unleashed to make gratuitous overkill. In an instant, seven men are atomized and four are killed from the effects of the delayed explosion. But, whereas other men would have long routed or died, those players who still live continue to fight as another wave of respawns reinforces both sides to full strength, for other men do not have the gift of immortality and thus are not secure in their survival when engaging such an overpowering foe.

Rifle-grenades rise up to the sky to make deadly impact upon its belly, tank-busting rockets go to punch through its ablative skin, and good old fashioned bullets nibble upon its hard exterior. The barks of rifles and the roars of autoguns are the dominant sounds here, as most of the players are too invested in the defeat of the alien ship to talk. The Neuroi then makes another terrifying sound that is a high-pitched whine to tell the world of its all-encompassing frustration after it does yet another beam attack that makes good effect upon its targets, only to find out that there are more, appearing out of nowhere in the forest. What disturbs it, is that the intermittent reinforcements are exactly identical to the humans it keeps on killing, with the same faces, with the same uniforms and badges of rank, except for their weapons which keep on changing.

**NNNNNNNNGGGGGGRRRRHH?!**, it groans, as if to ask, "Why won't you die?!", before unleashing yet again the trademark attack of its kin, but this time with _two_ beams instead of just one. Manipulating them to form another cross on the ground, the dead Earth is made even deader as more soil is destroyed and the resulting explosion flash-kills the life around, most prominently those of the players', of whom all twenty thereof, die utterly. In but the blink of an eye, the Neuroi's assailants are destroyed, and it finds sweet peace in the quiet aftermath of violent death.

The ground is charred black, the trees are all fallen, burnt and dead, and there are corpses everywhere. The battleground contrasts with the rest of the forest around it, whose trees are still a healthy if not gloomy dark green under the rain, which is letting up now, and the shadow of the overcast sky. The only sound one can hear at the moment is a soft, calming hum emanating from within the Neuroi, perhaps the rhythm of its core, as well as the pitter-patter of the weakening rain.

And then, just as it is about to leave, the twenty men respawn.

"Come on, **YEEEAAAAGGHH!**"

_DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA DAKKA_ - the boisterous cacophony of gunfire resumes, and the Neuroi roars yet again, as loud as it can, to express its belief of how the Players are an anathema to its existence and should be destroyed. Were the Neuroi a great orator with the ability to speak, both teams would surely have been moved. Bazookas, Panzerfausts, rifle-grenades and bullets continue their work upon the still healing surface of the Neuroi, whose choler is such that it is no longer holding back: full fusillades of scarlet death-beams does it fire frequently, without any mercy nor any remorse, and wave upon wave of players fall, each successive generation of Kr4uts, Jerkkes and Grapes, and ILLUMINATES and k1llers, inflicting more and more damage as they coordinate and concentrate their attacks on one specific point on the Neuroi craft.

And then, right out of the blue, two airplanes spawn out of nowhere right on top of the Neuroi, and some of the players on terra firma pause to take a gander at the two Soviet Sturmoviks before resuming their fire upon the Neuroi, which audibly whined in apparent confusion at the two pilots' sudden entrance. Two unfamiliar voices can be heard by the fighters down below through the magic of voice chat.

_"Woah, shit, where the hell are we?"_, is the question of one voice in all-American, unaccented English.

_"Did we, like, despawn?"_ is the reply of another, clearly British voice. _"Daw, I was enjoying getting treatment from those no-trousers girls."_

_"Thank God. With what we did, I'm not looking forward to speaking wi- Neuroi! six o'clock; behind us!"_

_"I see it! I see it!"_

_"And I see you too, and I am going to murder you!"_ is what the Neuroi would have said had it the capacity to talk. Instead, it bellows out a powerful **NNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGRRRGHHH!**, before proceeding to lift itself even higher from the ground as it prepares for aerial combat, red weapon-tiles glowing dreadfully as Magos and Kebab, in their Sturmoviks which the game picked as their warhorses without their consent, both make a tight, low-altitude turn to face their foe.

"Man, I did not even know this game had planes!" remarks HappyCat, his Russian accent a smooth and suave one.

_"Who said that?"_ asks a Magos being increasingly intimidated by his foe the longer he keeps staring at it.

"Uh, me?"

_"Where are you? I can't-"_

**NNNNNNNNNNNNNNNGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGGRRRHHHHH!**

It is then that the Neuroi, after taking the tenth volley of Panzerfausts and Bazookas, decides that it's had enough, and that it hates everything in the world that it not itself or its kin. This manifests in the form of two great roars, one more of a growl and the other resembling a furious scream, and also as a bright scarlet glow on all of its red-tiles. The intensity of the light is such that all who look upon it are sure to suffer damage to the retinas, and that everything around the Neuroi in a two hundred-meter radius is bathed in it. All the players get a feeling of extreme dread from this, as they know that their deaths are inevitable.

**NGGGRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGG HHH!**

_"-NONONOPSPSPSSSHSHSHSHHHAAAAAAAAAAAHHHH!"_

"OH SHIT!"

"RUN!"

_"IT'S LIKE A MOTHERFUCKING LIGHT SHOW-"_

_[KG508] MagosMechanicus (IL-2) shot down by Large-type Neuroi  
[KG508] Kebab_Eater (IL-2) shot down by Large-type Neuroi  
_

_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] Kr4ut_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] kelbor-hal_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] R4pid_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] SPEAR_OF_OLYMPUS_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] Iggyboy_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] Patton_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] Zur_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] Grape_  
___Large-type Neuroi [Laser] Ghost_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] Jerkke_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] Dakkanator_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] Yasha_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] ILLUMINATE_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] ponos_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] OminG_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] Corvy_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] N3r0th_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Laser] k1ller_  
_Large-Type Neuroi [Laser] Def_  
_Large-type Neuroi [Explosion]_ _HappyCat_

Inevitable, yes, but totally acceptable.

_[KG508] MagosMechanicus (IL-2) is ready for battle  
[KG508] Kebab_Eater (IL-2) is ready for battle_

_Kr4ut Respawned  
kelbor-hal Respawned  
R4pid Respawned  
SPEAR_OF_OLYMPUS Respawned  
Iggyboy Respawned  
Patton Respawned  
Zur Respawned  
Grape Respawned  
Ghost Respawned  
Jerkke Respawned  
Dakkanator Respawned  
Yasha Respawned  
ILLUMINATE Respawned  
ponos Respawned  
OminG Respawned  
Corvy Respawned  
N3r0th Respawned  
k1ller Respawned  
Def Respawned  
HappyCat Respawned_

And it was then that the Neuroi felt true fear for the first time, for it knew very well that it was hopelessly outmatched. With the trees disintegrated and the land cleansed clean, it saw very well the humans, no, _alien monstrosities_ masking as humans, reappearing out of nowhere, toting guns and immediately engaging it, confirming its suspicions of immortality within the enemy's ranks.** NNNNGGGRRRHH!** it bellowed, as it fired its weapons again, and again, and again, downing the Sturmoviks and killing the ground troopers, but sustaining more and more damage per wave survived. Eventually, its defense faltered, and one of the Sturmoviks managed to uncover its fragile core with a shotgun-blast of rockets.

_"Eat it, you motherfuck!"_

_Large-type Neuroi critically damaged by [KG508] MagosMechanicus (IL-2)_

In a display of foolishness, the Neuroi decides now as the appropriate time to escape. **NGGGGAAAAARGHH**, it whines terribly, clearly afraid, as it rises, from forty meters off the ground, to fifty; and yet the fiery orchestra of firepower from the charred forest below does not stop, for the monsters do not know of mercy. Bazooka and Panzerfaust rockets continue to race up, hurting the fell alien even more. **NGGGGRRGHH!**, it yells in pain to this; and **NN****HOOOO!**, it yells in a final act of defiance, as the Rift-equipped ground troopers of Red Orchestra concentrate their firepower at where the core is. Sparks fly and a bright, truly anime-esque flash of telltale white light is seen, before death finally takes the hated foe, and it explodes beautiful shower of luminescent, dissolving crystalline chunks and shards, which fall onto the ground like a gentle snow shower.

There is a moment of silence, before a chorus of cheers erupts, and whoops, yays and yippies, as well as the smacks of high-fives are now the dominant sounds in this small yet broken and defiled patch of land in the Ardennes forest. Meanwhile, as if in response to the death of the Neuroi, the overcast clouds that hang above part, and the rain stops completely, allowing naked sunshine to bathe the jubilant faces of the victors.

And the game is actually intelligent enough to recognize their combined efforts:

_Large-type Neuroi shot down by Kampfgeschwader 508 + American Team + German Team  
KG508 + Americans + Germans [Knife] Large-type Neuroi_

"WE DID IT!"

_"WOOOO!"_

"Victory!"

"Skulls for the skull throne!"

"Yay!"

"Uh... I'm getting a prompt here. 'Press F to kiss'?"

"Same here. Hey, I'll do it with you. Wow, it's switched to third-person- oh goodness gracious, our characters are using tongue."

"HAHAHAHAHA!"

"Faggots."

"Guys, let's not kill each other for now."

_[KG508] Kebab_Eater (IL-2) is ready for battle_

_"Damn you people. I was going to crash into it."  
_

"Haha, okay, great, so now that we've done that, what do we do now?"

"How did you get those planes?"

* * *

**Present Day  
London, Britannia  
****Britannian Supreme Command**  
**Air Chief Marshall Trevor Maloney's Office**  
**1858 Hours**

"So let me get this straight," said the middle-aged man behind the expensive mahogany desk, opposite of the lesser officer. "At around three o'clock in the afternoon today, a Dornier and a Messerschmitt one-oh-nine suddenly appeared over the Strait of Dover, and went to intercept the Large-type Neuroi that was headed for Britannia."

"Yes, sir."

"And that the Witches of the five hundred and first ordered them to leave because it was too dangerous, but they dived in anyway."

"Yes, sir."

"And then they died - and their pilots seemingly resurrected and rematerialised in different planes near the battleground."

"Yes, sir."

"And then one of them crashes his Beaufighter into the goddamn thing, and the plane actually survives and he and his gunner eject. His gunner's face was horribly burnt and died of injuries shortly after deploying his 'chute. The pilot suffered massive trauma to his legs and was recovered and treated magically by Sergeant Yoshike Meya- Miyafooh- Me- heh; the new recruit."

"Yes, sir."

"Meanwhile the other pilot, in a bomber-killer, crashed on purpose near where the other pilot landed. He exited his aircraft with serious wounds, but was somehow still able to walk. His gunners died in the crash with serious head trauma. Lieutenant Barkhorn quickly goes off to the Dover airbase to retrieve medical supplies, but the pilot here - what's his name, Lieutenant Mechanicus? Yes, he refuses any help that the Witches offer, and violently too."

There was a silence.

"Yes, sir."

Maloney continued.

"So he goes over to his friend and tells him that he's a glory-hogging son of a bitch, and then his friend makes a remark about how the Witches have no pants. This pushed Commander Wilcke and Major Saka- Sakamode- Sakamoto, who then proceed to berate both pilots for their insane actions. And then the pilots and their crashed aircraft disappear, leaving the Witches wondering what the hell just happened."

"Yes, sir."

"And then the Ardennes is lit up on fire when a Large-type Neuroi is engaged by a twenty-man gaggle of Karslander and Liberion troops - and also the two pilots, who've rematerialized over Belgium. Together, they defeat the Neuroi in twenty minutes."

"Yes, sir."

"And then suddenly, twenty King Tiger tanks supported by two B-17 Bombers flying at insanely low altitude make a push Westwards. They are assaulted by Neuroi ground and air elements. Progress is hindered due to the air units, but suddenly, five of the King Tigers morph to become anti-air gun carriages and rectify the problem. They push twenty kilometers and score over one thousand kills before rematerialising further Westwards."

"Yes."

Maloney raised an eyebrow.

"Yes, sir."

He continued.

"So they show up in Gallia and begin to make yet another push. Three Large-type Neuroi were scrambled by the Gallian Hive and sent to where they were. According to one of the soldiers whose name is... 'Happy Cat', they 'kept on dying and resurrecting' and that only through the brave sacrifice of 'Kebab Eater's' B-17 were they able to resume progress. The other B-17 destroyed another Neuroi by dropping a thousand-pound bomb on it. The last one was destroyed by someone named Spear of Olympus, who was in one of the King Tigers. Then they rematerialise in Normandy."

"Yes, sir."

"So they agitate the living hell out of the Hive and forces it to scramble more Large-type Neuroi. One of them, a fellow named 'Zur' claims that he's gotten a 'power-up', and then suddenly his Flakpanzer Mark Four magically becomes this giant... tank that sports twin battleship cannons and four anti-aircraft guns on its back. One of them, named 'Def', claims that it is a prototype Karlslander tank called, _'The Landkreuzer Ratte'_. Only one Large-type Neuroi is destroyed by it from four kilometers away before the tank itself is destroyed by the four other large Neuroi. Zur then claims that he cannot 'have access to the Ratte anymore'. They are then bogged down by a very dense swarm of smaller Neuroi supporting the Large ones."

"Yes, sir."

"So this is all happening in Normandy. Reports from the towns near the massive battle reach military ears and air wings are put on standby but not sent off. The smaller Neuroi force most of the soldiers to revert to what they call 'infantry mode' and one of them, named 'Kelbor Hal', claims to have a 'power-up'. He becomes a two-meter-tall, red-armored gladiator with a chainsaw-axe and twenty-millimeter pistol and goes to destroy only fifteen small Neuroi before he is overwhelmed. He then proceeds to complain loudly."

"Yes, sir."

"And then after that, the Lieutenant-Colonel 'Kebab Eater'-"

Maloney snickered.

"Anyway, the man says he's got a power-up too, so his Flying Fortress becomes a twin-engined, orange jet fighter he calls _'The Falcon'_. It fires a red beam of energy similar to appearance and effect to that of the Neuroi's, and he manages to destroy two Large-type Neuroi before it quickly reverts back to to being a bomber, and gets destroyed before he could crash it on the last enemy 'worth giving a shite about', which then decides it's high-time to retreat back to the Gallian Hive."

A pause.

"Yes, sir."

"So the air and ground swarms disappear and they celebrate their victory and compare kills and... deaths. After 'forced but fairly democratic voting', they then rematerialise near Dieppe and park their vehicles on the outskirts of the town. Lieutenant Mechanicus and Lieutenant-Colonel Eater-"

Maloney snickered again.

"Anyway, they don't have the patience to land, so they just parachute from their P-40 Kittyhawks and drift into the town. The men are received warmly by the population there, but opt to sit by the seashore, and someone with the same name as General Patton decides to make a sandcastle. Our own Captain Potter then talks to them, relays this information to you via radio, and now here you are."

"Sir, yes sir."

Trevor smiled.

"I want you to tell these soldiers that they are a Godsend, and that they should rematerialise, right here, in London. Tell them that Air Chief Marshall Trevor Maloney would like to speak with them."

"Yes, sir."

The Lieutenant gave a crisp salute before exiting the room to do exactly as he was told. Being left to his privacy, Trevor grinned, gave himself a small clap and muttered,

"Finally."

* * *

**A/N: **Welp, here you go: the fifth chapter. Once again, never hesitate to tell me what you think of it.


	6. The Theme Song

**Strike Witches: Through the Rift Opening Theme**  
**Song: **Hijacked Over Sky Type-12**  
Youtube link for reference: **/watch?v=6kYPqm0il4c**  
**

* * *

All the members of the 501st are present in the first scene. Their squadron's emblem is their background, and they, as pantsless as ever, perform a flashy, panty-revealing dance as they sing:

_"Hitori ja nakisou na, hiroi sora demo~"_

_"Nigenai yo massugu tachimukau,"_

The Witches point their fingers at the audience and wink while sinking their bodies down, showing just how great their legs and their muscles are, before straightening themselves up to perform the other, more hard-to-describe but undeniably equally attractive parts of their dance.

_"Nakama-"_

Suddenly, the 501st JFW's emblem behind their backs disappear, becoming transparent as the background transitions to that of a healthy forest clearing, and a chorus of voices of men who are clearly not well-versed in Japanese can be heard, before the men themselves appear from the sides and push the now protesting Witches away, much to their great annoyance.

"Get out, Lucchini, get-!"  
"Nakamaw, yeah~"  
"Allied supreme command is gonna kill us, you guys."  
"KHORNATE LEGION REPRESENT!"  
"I LOVE YOU URSULA HARTMANN!"  
"We have a pedophile in here; watch out!"

And then, all twenty-two Players who've been revealed thus far are now present before the camera, and take it upon themselves to continue the singing, which they all horribly suck at since Japanese is not their native language, failing at all to cling onto the tune of the song due to the delay of shoving away the Witches, who're now standing off-camera, glaring at them with furious eyes.

_"TOH ISSHO NI, OVER SKYYYYYYYY!"_

All twenty-two players point their hands at the sky when they utter (that is, scream) the last word, before dropping down their raised arms and looking at each other, dumbly saying "Yeah~" and idly moving their feet about since they didn't plan on anything beyond suddenly hijacking the opening. During the interim between the previous stanza and the next, kelbor-hal then suddenly stabs Dakkanator in the neck with a knife, which prompts SPEAR_OF_OLYMPUS to spear him at the back of the neck with a bayonet-affixed Springfield.

It is at this point that the Witches decide it best to run away. "Not again!" Lynette cries, and Erica stares at the sight with an open jaw, but her arm is quickly pulled by Gertrud.

The situation quickly deteriorates. Kr4ut takes out his MP40, the music still playing, and begins to riddle Grape and Jerkke with bullets, spilling a lot of blood. MagosMechanicus takes out his Luger and shoots Kr4ut in the head, but is ended along with R4pid, Ghost, Iggyboy and Kebab_Eater when Corvy holds up a live grenade over his head and doesn't throw it. Grape and Def are locked in a quicktime-driven brawl, with neither of them managing to get the upper hand, and ponos skewers both OminG and N3r0th with a stream of bullets from his MG-42. HappyCat, Yasha and ILLUMINATE run away, trying to escape while laughing out loud at the situation, but are quickly cut down by kelbor-hal's chain-axe, who's spawned as a Khornate Berserker from Warhammer 40,000, somehow.

"BLOOD FOR THE BLOOD GOD!" he yells, before he and the still-living players are killed when Kebab_Eater crashes his Beaufighter on the lot of them.

The scene abruptly changes to the dimly-lit interior of an air base's hangar, where War Thunder players and Kampfgeschwader 508 members MagosMechanicus and Kebab_Eater sit beside a shadowed man on the wing of a P-39N Aircobra. Floating lines of text duly float above their heads: _MagosMechanicus, 3m; Kebab_Eater, 3m; Soon to be Revealed, 4m._ And they sing, of course. Terribly, too; while they sway their bodies from side to side because they can't think of any other dance move.

_"Tenohira ni kaze o kanjita no nara~"_  
_"Tenohira ni kauze-_ I fucked up."  
"I can't speak Japanese."  
"Neither can-"

Once their utterly butchered line is finished and the beat resets, the scene changes yet again, this time to a side view of a dirt road in the green countryside where members of the Behind Enemy Lines clan, Kr4ut, Jerkke, Grape, R4pid and Ghost, ride on military bicycles and actually manage to sing their line: fruit borne of their little three-minute practice session.

_"Mou~, daijoubu~, shinjite janpu shiyou~!"_

And sing their line they do, looking like clowns as they ride their bicycles off-screen.

Duly does the scene change again, with Iggyboy, Zur, SPEAR_OF_OLYMPUS and Patton, all grown men with Browning Automatic Rifles slung over their shoulders, playing a hand-clapping game on the back of a massive P.1000 Ratte with dumb grins on their faces while singing,

_"Tooku ukabu kumo, hitottobi dekiru yo~"_

Iggyboy, however, screws up, uttering the 'to' syllable in the word, 'hitottobi' three times instead of just two. This prompts kelbor-hal to rush into the scene from a door at the back of the Ratte's turret and kill his fellow teammates with an ill-gotten claymore sword whilst continuing the song in his synthesized, mechanical voice, _"SONNA, DOKI-DOKI~! SOUZOU DEKINAKITTA~!"_

The scene changes yet again, to the snowy backyard of an unexplained barn. Behind the first German players to be introduced in the opening is a well-decorated Christmas tree, and there is light snowfall. FBI clan members OminG, N3r0th and ILLUMINATE hold loaded Panzerfausts which they use to perform their clearly African tribe-inspired dance; they perform light jumps with their black-booted feet and shake their tank-busting weapons around, all while merrily singing,

_"Minna no~, ashita no yumeeee~! Mamoru nda!"_

_"Yuuki arittake~!"_ comes the immediate and excited cry of the three newbies who are Def, Dakkanator and Corvy, resplendent in their stolen Wehrmacht officer's uniforms as they salute the audience - and do nothing else, to be followed by a very broken "_S__aa nigirishimete tobitateee~!_" by Nazi German flag-waving ponos, HappyCat, Yasha and Girls Gone Wild clan member k1ller.

And, for the chorus, all the Players are shown, in a combined-arms push against a large gathering of Neuroi ground and air elements, in a very open clearing suitable for a battle as grand as this. Five King Tigers are shown being ridden by Red Orchestra ground troopers like they are transports, and they, along with the players within the tanks, fire at the Neuroi with wild abandon, not even bothering to aim. Meanwhile, up high, Kampfgeschwader 508 members MagosMechanicus and Kebab_Eater support them by unleashing the full wrath of their rockets, cannons and machine guns in the cockpits of their IL-2 Sturmoviks.

Of course, with this being the chorus, everyone magically speaks in perfect Japanese; and with this being the opening of an anime, all the beams of death that the Neuroi fire upon them miss somehow.

_"Hitori ja nakisou na ookii sora demo~!"_

And to underscore the meaning of the next line, ponos and Kr4ut, who are supposed to be enemies as they are in different teams, are shown planting their backs against each other as they defend against small Neuroi flyers.

_"Nakama ga ireba~, egao ni nareru~!"_

_"Hora kiseki ja nai nda~!"_, they all sing, with wonderful voices truly fit for fancy royal choir, as Jerkke's King Tiger is shown blasting a Neuroi walker out of existence with a mighty cannon blast.

_"Yakusoku shita__ kara~, k__okoro ni kimeta kara~!"_ The scene shows all twenty-two Players destroying the smaller Neuroi like they're nothing, while showing their grimacing faces, scrunched brows and the barking muzzles of their weapons in split-second cuts. Only Kebab_Eater is shown grinning like mad, right there in his cockpit, for some reason.

_"Nigenai yo massugu-"_ suddenly they are all killed in a flash of scarlet death that acts as both the killing blow and a censor for the audience. _"-tachimukau~!" B_ut then they are shown respawning, twenty King Tigers and two B-17's literally appearing out of thin air, their return heralded only by a soft white glow and flashing bodies to indicate spawn protection.

_"Motto motto suteki na_-_"_ the view then switches, the invisible camera teleporting behind the Players' formation, so as to allow the audience to see from their perspective the several angry-looking, sun-eclipsing Large-type Neuroi that the Hive has sent to quell them.

_"Sekai no tame_ _ni__," _the Large Neuroi's red weapon-tiles are shown glowing a very harsh and fierce red, bathing the Players' war machines with their light, while twenty tank cannons rise up to stare at them, and eight engines work tirelessly to bring such heavy bombers close to the foe.

When the Flying Fortresses' defensive gunners fire the first shots, the simultaneous discharge of twenty tank cannons make a mighty, thunderous and earth-shaking boom, and when the Neuroi finally unleash their hatred, the camera pans up to look at the skies above.

_"OVER SKYYYY!"_

And then the music ends, but the sounds of battle do not. Without the upbeat song, and without actually seeing the conflict, the audience is given only a hint of the carnage being meted out by either side. The dominant sounds are that of massive explosions and panicked radio chatter from the Players as the screen fades to black.

And then Yoshika Miyafuji appears, the 501st Joint Fighter Wing's squadron emblem serving as her background as she cheerfully announces,

"Strike Witches hajimaru yo~!"


	7. Invasion of Privacy

**March 03, 1944  
1924 Hours  
The Gallian Hive**

The Players' rampant and uncaring blitzkrieg that headed westwards from the Ardennes and then northwards for Normandy have sent shockwaves across Allied Supreme Command and the Neuroi Hives. Though the former certainly don't know of any of the details (most human generals believe that the Neuroi had turned on each other) and are indecisive of what to do next, the latter are well-informed, for the crystal-clear memories of the lone Elder One that survived the merciless attacks were distributed across the Devouring Host. With the balance of power in the Western Front utterly broken in just three hours with the overwhelmingly powerful presence of the Unnaturals, the Gallian Hive convenes a summit as to how to deal with the new threat. Within the gargantuan swirling carnage of dark clouds and wanton lightning strikes that is the hive, it is actually rather peaceful, and the only sounds within the eye of the storm are impossibly that of the calming hum of the active Neuroi cores of all those present, and their deep voices, which lowly humans, in their ignorance and barbarity, perceive as mere groans and growls, as they converse.

Tormageddon flies high, above all the others, at the rim of the eye of the Gallian Hive. Its intimidating, imposing form, that of a heavy, gargantuan black crescent like an ill omen to all the world, eclipses the sun and casts a long shadow downwards. Its voice is like the rumble of an erupting volcano as it begins to speak.

**"My kin... as you all know, there has been a very startling development regarding the human race: a select few of them, all warriors, have achieved immortality. Even when their bodies have been atomized and their souls burned away by our cleansing fire, they come back to life, in new, fleshy bodies, riding in one of their primitive war machines at times, and resuming to attack us as if no misfortune had befell them. Already have many of our own perished under their undeniable might, and this I know for I have seen it with my very own eyes. Maelom, Occubus, Machariel: I saw their very hearts shattered so uncaringly by them, before I was overcome with morosity and terror, and was forced to flee."**

Sorrow sweeps across all those who've gathered, and many Neuroi audibly express their sadness at the loss of their companions. Tormageddon, who has already finished mourning, allows the wails and the whimpers to die down before continuing.

**"They are very undisciplined, yet they are undoubtedly elite combatants. They are without fear, for they know that they cannot be killed; and yet their leaders and masters do not trust them, and most do not even know of them. And when one of them, piloting one of what they so wrongly call 'Flying Fortresses', went near to me, a great feeling of dread constricted my very heart as I felt his aura, for his soul was not of one, but of two; and one is palpable yet the other is not. One essence truly exists, yet the other doesn't and feels false. I also felt the pinpricks of the spiked chains of tormenting slavery and the burning sensation caused by imagined scenes of infernos in purgatory on my skin as he neared me, and I was forced to flee; totally unlike their female Witch kin, whose songs and auras, although simple, are soothing to us, for theirs are that of simple, instinctive, almost childlike care towards their people, just like how we love and desire only the best for each other, my kin."**

Tormageddon pauses.

**"But back to the point: the immortal humans, or the Unnaturals as we have come to name them, are possessed by powerful demons."**

Varied sounds of shock and disgust, but none of disbelief, then echo over the outskirts of Paris, the abandoned capital city of Gallia and where the Neuroi Hive had retreated to from the southern parts of Normandy, to protect itself from the tender mercies of the Unnaturals.

**"They must burn!"** says young Polox, his rotund form's red tiles glowing with great anger. **"They are a scourge upon us all!" **declares the elder Galatos, whom Niminis agrees with. **"Indeed! We must end them, that we may feast upon this world unimpeded!"**

**"Yes, my kin!"** Tormageddon continues through the chorus of insults directed at the Unnaturals. **"Hate them! Detest them! They are foes to be slain, and-"**

**"Nay," **comes the booming interjection of ancient Kyras, whose form of a simple large disc hides truly amazing power. Many of the younger Neuroi quake under its voice, even though it means no harm. **"I say that we assimilate them, make them one of ours. Though you younger ones have forgotten and are incapable of the arts we used during our war with the Oro'kan, before the Great Divide, I myself remember perfectly well. Do capture three of them - you said before that there were twenty-two, yes? I will try to Change the first as a prototype and testbed, Change the second as a finished product, while I take apart the last to see just how their immortality works. It is a challenge truly worthy of someone who is as skilled in divine metaphysics like I."**

Tormageddon is most pleased by this, and so are the eight hundred other Neuroi who're present, except for one, who make murmurs of agreement.

**"Then that is what we will do,"** says the black crescent. **"Send seeker swarms! Attack them only when they are on foot; they are weak without their mounts! Go, go forth!"**

Within mere moments, tens of thousands of small, core-less Neuroi about the size of a man's head begin to pour out of the stormy wall of the gigantic, churning cloud system that is the Gallian Hive. They spread throughout all of Western Europe at a rapid pace with the aim to locate the Unnaturals, wherever they may be, desperately it seems, without any care for stealth; but for two days, they find nothing, and most are shot down by hastily-scrambled conventional forces and Witch units. By March fifth, only a few hundred remain aloft in the air, still ever alert for any sign of the demon-hosts.

* * *

**March 05, 1944**  
**2000 Hours**  
**Mont Saint-Michel  
**

The coldness of the incessant rain in the night beyond the window is offset by the warmth of the passion of two certain people in the castle bedroom wherein lies two other certain people who're trying their best not to giggle or make sounds of amazement of the sight before them. Frequent, quiet moans contest for dominance against the perpetual growl of the weather and the occasional thunder boom of a lightning strike from far away. The atmosphere is that of pure love, as the young couple wrap their arms around each others' lithe and undeniably, perfectly voluptuous bodies possessed of no visible imperfection as this is an anime, inquisitive fingers exploring every nook, cranny and oh-so-sensitive bump, oh so fast and oh so desperate to express their all-encompassing affection for each other. Their lips are locked tight and their eyes are closed shut; flesh rubs against flesh and drowning, velvet ecstasy like fine silk finds a place with happiness and contentment within the hearts of Yoshika Miyafuji and Lynette Bishop.

Their soft lips part, a fragile trail of saliva briefly bridging the gap between them before being broken, and the two sergeants who

"... are way too young to be doing these kinds of things, mate,"

and also completely in the nude, look deeply into each others' eyes, before confessing to each other for the third time today.

_"I love you, Yoshika..."_

_"I love you, Lynette..."_

Her hands already in the right places, the latter girl does something that gives Yoshika a strong and alarming sensation.

_"Ahn~!"_, is the Fuso witch's satisfying reply.

"My God, they're really going for it," remarks an unseen and grimacing MagosMechanicus, who stands together with his kebab-eating friend in spectator mode, right before the foot of the bed, incapable of being heard or seen by the world's inhabitants through mechanics they still don't understand.

"Well, it's legal here, I think," Kebab Eater says, having adopted a contemplative look ever since the two girls progressed from heart-melting confession, to the rather dirty prelude of the acts he sees right now, before his eyes.

_"Mmmnh~, Lynne~"_

Magos turns his head to look at his ghostly friend, but his eyes do not, and so he makes a conscious effort to pry them away from the entrancing, rhythmic movements of the lovers in front of him. "Really?" he asks, incedulous.

"Yeah," Kebab replies, staring fixedly into the telltale, glistening moisture that's being spread around by nimble fingers. "The Neuroi have devastated the entire world and, as you say, devoured entire landmasses. It'd make sense for governments to lower the age requirements for sexual consent and marriage, so, you know, humanity wouldn't die off?"

_"Yoshika, I love you so much. Mere words can't express the sheer affection that I feel for you always. You've always been there to cheer me up, to keep me company, to help me. Ever since that time yesterday, when we talked under the moonlight for hours, when I was too depressed to help myself, I've fallen for you. I was touched with your determination and amazing effort to help me, and began to long for you when you looked into my eyes and said to me from the bottom of your heart that I am not worthless, that I am...- Yoshika, you make me happy. I love your cooking, your desire to protect everyone. I love our moonlight walks together. I love your smile, Yoshika! I love you! From now, to even beyond death, you are mine, and I am yours!"_

Magos and Kebab have widened eyes and raised brows from the nuclear warhead of great lovey-dovey that Lynnete just dropped. As the lovers' breaths become heavier, more husky, and the look upon their faces and the language conveyed by their bodies becomes more intimate in the metaphorical nuclear aftermath, Magos takes some time to reply to Kebab.

"Yeah, I guess that'd make sense, but... she's speeding up... and that's the fourth confession from her today."

"This is really romantic, you know... wait, no it isn't. Two creepy, invisible men are watching them while they consummate their newfound love for the very first time, and they don't even know. Oh!" Kebab smiles, clapping his hands once, "The joys and wonders of spectator mode~!"

_"Lynne, I love you too, I- I- aaahh~! Ahh~! A-ahhh-!"_

"Wow," says Magos, as their pants and Yoshika's moans of release fill the very air of the room, and reverberate against the walls. The rain suddenly intensifies as if to accentuate the Fuso witch's sudden rise to the gates of heaven, and light from a distant lightning strike brightens the area and sharpens already cast shadows for but an eyeblink.

_"Haa... haa... haa..."_ The sound of their breaths in the afterglow - Yoshika's sound more exhausted - forces the two truly creepy and intruding members of Kampfgeschwader Five-Zero-Eight to contort their faces in an expression conveying their ambivalent mixture of feelings of disbelief, amusement, disgust, sympathy and, you guessed it, growing lust.

_"Oh Yoshika,"_ Lynette says, tracing an adoring finger upon her lover's cheek, _"Your cuteness never fails to get me."_

"Man," Magos begins after a beat.

"This is some fucked up shit." Kebab finishes.

_"W-wait! Yoshika, what are you doing?!"_

"Wanna know what else is fucked up, brah?", Magos asks.

"I might, brah. What is it?"

_"D-don't touch me there!"_

"All those guys from Red Orchestra, banned right after Maloney took us under his command."

Magos does not lie: all were banned, right after the twenty-two players put their signatures on twenty-two word-covered papers that were all probably very important; they did not mind them much, nor did they read any of it, save the first few sentences, which stated something about agreeing to be transferred to Chief Air Marshall Trevor Maloney's command - Maloney, whose sins to the witches and association with National Socialist and fellow supernatural relic and person-hunter Heinrich Himmler were purposely ignored by the players, out of fun, and because he didn't really seem like a bad guy once you got to know him. Immediately after, hands were shaken and gratuitous yells of celebration were sounded, to which the middle-aged man in charge of the 501st Joint Fighter Wing and the now-official Kampfgeschwader 508 and the newly-formed 1st Warlock Regiment, the former of which was renamed to the 509th Joint Fighter Wing so as to avoid Karlsland being drawn into this, was very much pleased with, even if he couldn't find a reason for the players' sudden burst of merriment. Myriad, smiling faces were then silent as Maloney phoned Commander Minna, and told her something which she was, and still is, very, very opposed to: _"You know Lieutenant Mechanicus and Lieutenant-Colonel Eater? Yes, they and twenty of their friends are going to be rebasing to your castle there. And to answer your inevitable question, it is because they are warlocks with the magical power of immortality. Expect them in... a few days, maybe less - no, definitely less. They can also disappear and reappear to and from places in but an eyeblink. Hmm? Yes, very good. Have a nice night, commander." _

And then the banning happened. One by one did the superpowered players suddenly disappear, to everyone's shock and, when they found out why, their fear. First, it was Kr4ut, then it was Jerkke, and then kelbor-hal, and Iggyboy, and then all the other players from Red Orchestra followed soon after. Maloney's panic was evident when he asked what the bloody hell was going on, and Magos answered with a stammering "W-we are being f-forbidden from this universe! We'll be back in a few day-", before he was cut off with a screen-freeze and a terrible, terrible message:

_You have been banned for 48 hours.  
Your actions have greatly disturbed the balance of power.  
The Neuroi are taking action.  
_

Frantic messages through Steam and Skype between the players soon followed, not because of the vague warning at the bottom, but because of their being forbidden.

And so, after two days and the lifting of their ban, the two War Thunder players we all know and love named MagosMechanicus and Kebab_Eater are here, in a spacious, well-decorated bedroom in a fancy castle in the middle of a strait, staring at the two passionate lovebirds before them while they complain about perceived injustice.

"I know, right? Who the fuck's managing the server? I'm having doubts as to whether this is an actual universe we're changing, or if we're just in some sort of prototype game. Banning someone due to 'greatly disrupting the balance of power', complete with a forbid message, is way too gamey for this."

_"Nooo~!"_

"And we were banned for only two days!" Magos follows. "We killed as many as they did, but they were banned for a full three months, and it even said there, that the 'server's player slots' had decreased from infinite to three. Fucking _three_? What is this, who the hell is controlling the server? Is this some sort of creepy developer prototype MMO for the Rift?"

_"This is revenge, Lynne-chan~!"_

"I don't know," comes Kebab's immediate reply. "But things like this are best left dismissed with a hand wave. Let's just continue to play the game and enjoy it before our alpha or beta privileges or whatever are taken away. Or our super secret DARPA-CIA-United States Government passes for inter-universe travel. Either way, let's just enjoy ourselves."

_"Y-Yoshika, I-"_

"Ehh," Magos muses, before concluding, "You're right. We might be just overreacting here. Pretty bad that those Red Orchestra people got banned, yeah, but just take things moment for moment. Like this moment right here - let me go run FRAPS. Wait, no," an evil smile curls Magos' lips. "How about we stream this to the Red Orchestra guys?"

What curls Kebab's own, however, is a frown. "And get arrested?"

Magos raises an eyebrow. "What do you mean?" And then he realizes, dumb as he is. "Oh shit, I forgot: they're underage!"

_"Y-Yoshika, I'm gonna-"_

But Kebab scowls, and points at the elated Lynette, looking at his friend with a threatening glare. "Does that look legal to you?"

Magos takes note of the girl's jiggling assets and jokes to lighten up the suddenly sour atmosphere. "Actually, yes."

The kamikaze pilot tears his eyes away from his friend's face, to where his friend is looking at. "Ah-", he begins, before shutting up, and pointing at Yoshika. "Does that look legal to you?!", he repeats, this time with only feigned anger, much to Magos' relief.

_"I love you, Lynne-chan~!"_

"Uh-", but Magos is interrupted when a loud yell of release from the healthy Britannian girl fills the very air and drowns out even the sounds of the incessant storm beyond the window.

_"Aaaaaaaaahhh~! Aaahn~! Aah~!"_

"Jesus!" he exclaims, clearly startled by the sudden, loud moans, while Kebab_Eater laughs out loud at the ridiculous situation, likening it to two young, budding plants having their delicate leaves touch each other for the first time, while two gigantic cows stare at them curiously and a bit hungrily. And as the two players suspect, Yoshika and Lynne decide that they have enough energy and passion left for another round, and another, and then another, and so they are hard-pressed not to stay and lengthen their trespass.

"I don't want go to bed yet. This is too fun."

"I agree," replies Kebab.

And so, for hours, even when the rain has ended and the looming sheet of dark clouds has dispersed over the strait, they sit down on two chairs beside a coffee table before a window, their invisible figures ignored by the physics of the moonlight, and talk about the various aspects of life and the suffering of man, as well as other seemingly irrelevant ideas from the rhythmic, artful movements of the young couple they've somehow extracted such ideas from.

"See how Yoshika arches her back?" Magos says, his elbows upon the wooden surface of the table and his chin resting upon the backs of his joined hands, looking like a true philosopher.

"Indeed."

"It is indicative of mankind's pain, and whatnot."

_"Oh, yes~"_

"Oh yeah?" Kebab says, trying hard not to giggle through the indicative moans of sex. "How?"

"It looks painful, and- no, couldn't keep a straight faceHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!"

"PFFFTHHGHGHGHGHGH," Kebab's suppressed laugh is akin to the sound one makes when choking.

_"Mm~"_

They've been doing this for four hours now.

The joys and wonders of spectator mode, indeed.

* * *

**Hours Later, After a Nice Sleep  
March 06, 1944**  
**0600 Hours**  
**Mont Saint-Michel**

As the Sun shyly and slowly begins to peek out from the horizon, the first golden rays of warming light illuminate the walls of the castle the 501st JFW call their home, and make the calm, morning waters of the strait glisten with their refraction and reflection. As the minutes go by, the sky slowly turns from a dark blue to a lighter one, and the mother star's presence becomes so overwhelming that the little twinkling ones from far away have their own lights drowned out, and duly disappear from view. Unlike last night, there is no storm, no rain, no thunder or lightning; the weather is peaceful, exactly like one that you'd wake up to feeling responsible and productive - which doesn't last long, of course - and when the clock strikes at 6 AM, the telltale wake-up tune of Reveille can be heard being sounded off by a distant trumpet.

And there, upon the start of the narrow runway of the Strike Witches' base, pops out two trespassing, pedophilic, murderous madmen, right out of thin air, both wearing flight uniforms, goggles and life vests and all, but spawning without airplanes.

_[KG508] Kebab_Eater is ready for battle  
[KG508] MagosMechanicus is ready for battle_

They look around, at the sky, at the ground, at their crotches - everywhere, as they cup the air in front of their temples as they adjust the Oculus Rift. To Mio Sakamoto, who'd witnessed them appear out of nowhere and currently stands at a score or so of meters away from them, they look like strange men doing some sort of traditional dance from a culture thought to be long gone. But they aren't, and they are, in fact, very civilized people, oh so denoted when one of them squeezes the other's buttocks and grabs his attention.

"FUFUFUFF-! Oh, it's just you. Morning, Kebab!"

"Hey, Magos. You're quite early. It's only six over where you are, isn't it?"

"Yeah. Asshole admin or soulless autoban aside, I'm loving this, whether this is a game or not."

Kebab smiles. "Me too, man. I really enjoyed our philosophical studies last night, let me tell you."

Magos snickers. "Suffering of man, arguments about communism-" They both share a laugh as they fondly remember hypnotizing, gyrating movements together. "Crazy shit. So why aren't we in airplanes?"

"Forgive me for interrupting, gentlemen, but who are you and what are you doing on the runway?" comes the stern voice of the aforementioned Fuso Witch and Major, Mio Sakamoto, who's closed the rather lengthy distance between her and the two perverts and is now within speaking distance. Both players turn their head around to look at her and find their eyes immediately darting downwards, so they make a conscious effort to pry them up, so that they stare not at her dignity, but at her face - which is unblemished and utterly perfect, and so is the rest of her skin.

Kebab_Eater is taken aback by her beauty, but he expresses it not with a blush or a stammering greeting, but with a frown and two decisive nods as he suddenly points his finger skywards and begins to dance, trying very hard to tell of his thoughts through the motions of his body. Magos notices this and bops him in the head, which causes him to stop. Mio also notices, and is rather confused, denoted by a zombie-like "Uhh..."

"Lieutenant Magos Mechanicus, ma'am!" comes Magos' stiff reply, as he presses the ever-important F key to salute. Kebab doesn't, however, as he ranks higher than the Major.

"Lieutenant-Colonel Kebab Eater, yep," he says, nodding.

"Ah," Mio's eyes widen as she recognizes the two, before scowling deeply. "You're the two pilots who got themselves killed during the attack three days ago, and apparently, our new squadmates. Before we talk about anything else: have you any idea how utterly terrified we were for you? Your reckless, devilish actions traumatized two of our rookies and one of our veterans. Look, I know you two are immortal, but why didn't you at least tell us?"

"We were a top-secret unit, ma'am." replies Magos immediately, still in a stiff manner, shutting Kebab up. "No longer, though. Our actions in Belgium and Fr-Gallia have made quite a few shockwaves, so we're attached to your unit now, si-ma'am."

Mio's eyes widen, and her face adopts a look of shock. While she's staring intently at Magos, Kebab stares intently at her, and shakes his head as he thinks inappropriately. "You mean, all of that commotion was you? The Neuroi didn't turn on themselves?"

"Yes, ma'am. That was all of us; all twenty-two of us, ma'am."

"Indeed? Where are the others?"

"Ma'am, they are dead."

_'My God, those legs.'_

"What?" Mio's brow furrows.

"They're dead for three months, ma'am. We won't see them till... _March, April, June, July_ - July, ma'am. Atomized completely by one of those big Neuroi fuckers while they were low on magic, ma'am. Will take some time for their magic to gather and respawn them, ma'am."

"At ease, Lieutenant," scolds an increasingly annoyed Mio. "Stop calling me 'ma'am' at every turn."

_'Those genes~'_

"Yes, ma'a-_penis._"

Mio's glare intensifies. "What was that, Lieutenant?"

Magos grimaces. "I was stopping myself from saying the 'm' word. Penis, Major!"

_'And she thinks nothing of having no pants-_"PFFFVFGBT." Kebab is brought out of his imagined land where he theorizes things when he hears his companion cry out the word, and he makes a sharp raspberry as he tries to suppress his laughter, but he fails.

"HAHAHAHAHA!" he arches his back as he cackles, before he presses F to do a devastating spinning kick at Magos, who struck down onto the ground, hard. Mio steps in to stop what she thinks is an imminent scuffle but protests backed up with outstretched arms and open palms from both men halt her, and she is left indecisive. The swing of both the mood and the atmosphere is sudden, and it seems that the Major is the only one so greatly affected by it, having lost her dominance in the conversation.

"HAHAHA!" continues Kebab, as he points a finger at his prone friend. "I CAN'T TAKE ANYTHING SERIOUSLY HERE BECAUSE OF YOU!"

"So says the guy who's been staring at the Major and thinking lewd thoughts! Look, man, I know she's pretty and all, but that shit's off-limits. She's what, five years old from the time she was conceived?" spits Magos back; Mio blushes and adopts a confused look. "The Japs have made a brand new hentai game for the Rift, and it comes with an electronic wanker! Go vent your frustrations in that instead of people who rank lower than you!"

"What the hell are you talking about?!" demands Mio.

"Yeah, Magos!" exclaims a sniggering Kebab. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"About the suffering of man!" declares a Magos pointing at his friend, who laughs at his display of errant stupidity, "A-and everything that's wrong with you!"

"Oh, you stuttered!" points out Kebab with a single, loud and mocking clap of his hands. "That's so cute~! You're like, a baby boy! Yeah!"

"Why would you even think of me like that? Wow, not only are you a faggot, but a pedoph-"

"THAT'S ENOUGH!" yells an irate Mio, who now stands in between the two men with her katana drawn and its grip held firmly in her skilled hands. "You're acting like children!"

"We know," immediately replies Kebab, his demeanor suddenly solemn, almost sad. "It's the only way we can offset the disturbing shit we have to do every day."

Magos plays along, like the good friend he is. "Yeah, it is," he says, before he, as he sits on his arse on the runway, looks down at the ground with a distant, dejected look. "I've died a hell of a lot of times," he adds, "And none of them were pleasant. Immortal we may be, Major, but we can still feel pain."

"Yeah," Kebab backs his friend up, turning his gaze to the waves of the strait that separates Brtiannia and Gallia, away from the Major, allowing the sun to warm and illuminate his face with its light, looking like the wistful main character on any piece of cover art. "We're thankful for this power, Major. We really are, but it's just the same as watching everyone else die. Sorry if we're acting like pricks, but shit, mate, it keeps us from thinking about things like this."

And Mio stares at both of them, lowering her katana, their words having affected her greatly, as she contemplates, and realizes that they face dangers just as bad as- no, even worse than what she and her squadmates have to deal with. Death is no easy thing to endure, and these two men in front of her have to die countless times each week. She flicks her eyes down to see the brightness of reflected light off the blade of her katana, and she frowns, for she believes that she thought wrong of them. '_They aren't bad people at all; they're just like this because they spend every day in pain,' _Mio thinks, _'They're still pricks, though.'_ Magos lifts his chin up to look at the Major, who stares at him with a sorry look. Moments pass by and the silence is like a great weight upon everyone's shoulders.

_"Dude"_ Magos quickly types in team chat. _"I think we made her sad. Why did we force drama? No suspense or buildup m8 wtf. Mood changed 20000 times"_

_"yea that was the piont. we cant keep antagonising the hiwtches and acting like arseholes around them. also im not good at that woe-is-me bs. but we gotta make them sympathetic to us"_

_"Okay."_

_"from now on were gonna be nice guys and maybe even score"_

_"Sorry to burst your bubble, but lal the witches are gay."_

_"oh wow rly?"_

_"Maybe. idk. Swear on my mother Kebab if u touch any one of them ill end you. they are perfect angels to be adored not objects to vent your frustration on"_

_"calm down mate i was jk"_

_"brfghfghfghfghfghfghfgh"_

"Hey, hey, don't be like that," Magos says to Mio, gesturing with his hands placatingly like one would do in a vain attempt to stop a toddler from crying.

"No," says Mio. "It was selfish of me to judge you so easily. I knew from the start that you were assholes and nothing but trouble, but now I know that you've a good reason for being troublemakers and assholes. I dehumanized you and thought of you not as people, but as mere annoyances; I was foolish and never considered what it's like to be in your shoes, experiencing death over and over and over again, and so I immediately thought of you as anathema to us Witches." She bows deeply, and the two War Thunder players raise them eyebrows and widen their eyes dumbly in response. "My deepest apologies. You aren't terrible people at all. We might just be able to survive having you in the base." She rises. "However, you _will_ lessen your being shitheads while you're here. We've enough problems at is it, dealing with the sudden Neuroi swarms, and we don't want more of them. Is that clear?"

The two players, not used to being told things like that in such a stern and serious manner, merely nod like moronic bobbleheads. After a beat, Kebab points out,

"You know, Major, I rank higher than you."

"Yes, but I'm more mature than you are."

Magos, who's already stood up, snickers as his friend can't formulate a comeback; and though Kebab's kick was powerful indeed, his face is miraculously without wounds. Our favorite kamikaze pilot bops Magos in the head for not backing him up, and Mio smirks playfully at the two, as to her, it is a wonder to see these two idiots interact. She parts her lips to speak, but she is halted when Magos casts his voice.

"Ma'am, are romantic relationships between Witches forbidden?"

Mio raises an eyebrow. "I've no idea why you're asking that question, but yes, such relationships are forbidden."

"Okay. Then what's the legal age of consent around these parts?"

"Fourteen," she says, with an inquisitive, almost guarded look. "But that's common knowledge. Are you trying to make a point, Lieutenant?"

"No, ma'am," says Kebab Eater. "My wingman is just stupid and inappropriate."

Magos was about to say something, but he quickly purses his lips.

"Very well then," Mio replies, after a short moment of silence, dismissing the issue. "Come on, it's time for the others to meet you. Then we can properly integrate you into the squadron." With that, the Major turns around and begins walking to the smaller door, made for personnel rather than aircraft, of the somewhat distant hangar that houses the 501st's striker units. Magos and Kebab, having nary a reason not to, go to follow her. Halfway through, Magos notices that Kebab's gaze is firmly planted on the Major's thighs, so he bops the guy in the head, which causes him to bop him back; and then the situation deteriorates rapidly as they give into their childish desires and begin a slap fight.

"So tell me more of your blitz through Gallia," says Mio, as she opens the hangar door and steps into the shadowed interior of the building without looking at them, forcing the two manchildren to stop and quickly adopt a calm demeanor.

"We kept on dying," replies Magos, as he steps through the doorway, followed by Kebab. Both players crane their heads around and take in the detail of their very spacious environs, as neither have ever been in an aircraft hangar before. Support beams form interior ribs that hang under the roof of the building, and various light fixtures, obsolete to the players but appropriate for the current era they're in, dimly illuminate the sides of it, while some are suspended from the roof. High windows allow sunlight to seep in, and at the very back of the hangar are the service stations for the Witches' striker units, who're neat, polished and definitely battle-ready.

"Ah, right. Sorry for asking."

"No, Major," says Kebab. "It's alright. We're used to it now. Mostly, anyway." That is a lie. Death never bothered these two. "We started our offensive in the Ardennes, when Magos and I, like the scumbags we are, disappeared from the Strait and reappeared there. Really, really sorry-"

"Don't apologize to me, but to Sergeants Bishop and Miyafuji, and Lieutenant Barkhorn. You've wronged them the most." Mio interjects as she opens a door that leads to a hallway lined with wooden doors and various fine paintings and busts to the right, and windows to the left, from whence golden sunshine from the morning sun comes through. A very long, well-embroidered carpet lays upon the floor and softens each of the three's footfalls, and two hollow suits of plate armor flank and guard each door, save for the one that leads to the hangar.

"R-right, sorry." Kebab stammers, while Magos remarks at their baroque surroundings quietly. "Goddamn, I've never been to such a fancy place."

As they round a corner, Mio encourages, "Continue, Lieutenant-Colonel."

"Ah, right, so yeah: we didn't actually want to teleport - that's what we call our hocus-pocus-disappear-reappear powers - yeah, we didn't actually want to teleport to the Ardennes, we just did; I don't know why. We just felt a really big surge of magic while one of your sergeants was healing me right after I downed that one Neuroi with my Beaufighter and my friend was being a retard."

"Oi."

"Shut up, Magos. So yeah, we were suddenly in So-I mean, Orussian IL-2 Sturmoviks and we were flying overhead a battleground, where all twenty members of the First Warlock Regiment-"

"First Warlock Regiment?" Mio interjects.

"Yeah, newly formed, like, two days ago. They're the ones we won't be seeing till July. So yeah: we found the warlocks engaging a large-type Neuroi with their teeny-tiny small-arms and we just had to help out. We didn't know that they were warlocks yet, mind you, so we were terrified for them," Kebab lies. "But when we saw them resurrecting over and over and over again, we calmed down, and after a few deaths, we made that Neuroi our bi- I mean, we killed the Neuroi, Major."

"... right," says Mio after a beat, since she's not exactly used to superior officers tiptoeing around her, before, while still navigating the castle hallways, Kebab continues, both him and his wingman following close behind her.

"So yeah, after that, we just spawned - that's what we call our uhm, object-fabrication powers - so yeah, we spawned twenty Panzer Mark Seven 'King Tiger' tanks - it was really hard, let me tell you," he lies again, "and then we decided to make a push westwards. I think we scared the shit out of the Hive 'cause we encountered some very, very heavy resistance right after our first few kills and deaths. Imagine kicking, like, a hundred beehives, right? The _entire_ sky was nothing but this churning mass of black, flying small Neuroi lead by a few really big ones," he exaggerates. "And we were screwed for half an hour or so, and were forced to give up a lot of ground, because the entire world was nothing but _pew pew pew_ and lasers!"

"... I wasn't expecting you to be relating this to me with such... vigor...?"

"Yeah, Kebab. Stop dancing around; you're scaring the good Major with your retar-"

"Fuck off, mate; I'll ask for your opinion when I want it. Now, anyway, we found lots of hard cover in this deep-ass gorge, so we morphed some of our King Tigers into Flakpanzers, and they took take of the air elements, while the rest of us took care of those big spider-things on the ground. Needless to say that we kept dying and dying and died painful and horrible deaths; I remember Grape's engine cooking off and he was burning inside of it. I swear, mate, I'll carry his pained shrieks to my grave."

Mildly disturbed at how Kebab is telling such a terrifying, gory tale with a tone one would use for a friendly greeting, Mio asks,

"Twenty King Tigers and there are only twenty-two of you? You and the Lieutenant were in planes, right?"

"Yep. B-17's." Magos confirms.

"So where are your gunners? And the rest of the crew for the King Tigers? Do they share your immortality? I saw their corpses myself when that Neuroi attacked."

"They're... magical apparitions. Akin to phantoms," Magos says, making up complete and utter bull. "They're not real, but they're made of flesh, and they can die. They're extensions of ourselves, basically, and are in perfect synchronization with us."

"Ah, so that's how you operate multi-seat vehicles?"

"Yes, ma'am," Magos confirms.

"We're here," says Mio, right before Kebab could open his mouth and talk about the blitz again, for in front of the three is a set of sturdy-looking, wooden double-doors, and muffled sounds of chatter from clearly feminine voices can be heard from beyond it. The two players, now frozen behind the Major, stare at the entrance of the lion's den like two scared and lost survivors from a plane crash would stare upon an actual lion's den: with fear. They are not prepared for this; their hearts aren't prepared for this. They can handle swarms of Neuroi and numerous deaths, but not _this_. With ten porcelain beauties just a few meters away from them and hidden from view, it is only natural that they feel nervous.

_"THat's a lot of feminine energy m8"_, types Magos in team chat.

_"and worst of all, they might hate us"_

_"i am so not prepared for this"_

_"M8 HAVE A STRONG WILL WE CAN POWER THROUGH THIS :^|"_

_"i sure hope so. thers almost no difference between real life and the game. look m8, this is STRIKE WITCHES were talking about. i can only handle so much girl-on-girl groping. i cannot tell you how HARD everything was last night. and the ppl beyond those doors DONT WAER PANTS :^("_

_"ITS GOING TO BE OKAY MAGOS :^|"_

_"KEBAB SHES OPENING THE DOOR :^("_

_"I SAID ITS GOING TO BE OKAY THEY WONT HATE US"_

_"I AM NOT GOOD AT PEOPLE HATING ME GODDAMNIT I HAVE ALWAYS BEEN A GOOD GUY D^:"_

"Girls, settle down. We have guests!" says Mio, as stern as ever, and duly does the chatter unseen by the two players who're too cowardly to step inside die down. "Well, come on, you two," she encourages, and MagosMechanicus and Kebab_Eater, after a beat, reluctantly step inside, both wearing masks of confident indifference on their faces. Finally inside the dining hall, the nine Witches who're eating breakfast (and still lacking trousers), towards the side, are now visible to them. Yoshika, Lynette, Charlotte, Erica, Gertrud, Eila, Francesca, Perrine, Minna - they stare at the two players with different looks each: Yoshika's mouth is agape in what seems to be shock, and her sigh denotes relief. Lynette immediately scowls a scowl that would rend a kitten apart. Charlotte looks at them disapprovingly, and so does Francesca. Eila and Erica, much to the players' hidden surprise, smile. Perrine bares her teeth and drops her fist upon the table in anger, while Minna deceptively looks calm, but

_"God knows what Minna's thinking m8. those eyes betray a lot of hatred dghdhdhdh"_

And Mio? Well, Mio simply, evilly smirks at the two players.

With a fake smile, Magos turns to Mio. "Is there a phone nearby? I'd like to request a transfer to another unit." Kebab, meanwhile, purposely, evilly makes them both look bad by saying,

"Um... I bet those pancakes are delicious! You're a good cook, Sergeant Miyafuji!"

Lynette's reaction is rather unexpected. Boiling in anger, she rises up swiftly from her seat and yells,

"Don't you dare talk to Yoshika!"

"Oh God!" exclaim the two players in chorus as they wince reflexively, their in-game avatars following their movements in real life.

_"SCARY SCARY SCARY SCARY SCARY"_

_"m8 neither of us can take anything seriously in this world/game bc of each other :^|"_

* * *

**A/N:** Welp, here you go: the 7th chapter. Once again, I am very much concerned about the quality of my work, and so I urge you to send me detailed feedback. Plus, I am losing interest in this story.


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